


Safely Rest

by MDJensen



Series: Safely Rest 'verse/post-finale [2]
Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: (but mostly to McDanno I promise), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Steve wouldn't leave Danny for good, and Danny wouldn't let him anyway, canon-compliant but also a fix-it, fic written by an NJ native, friendship fic, love letter to McDanno but also to New Jersey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:14:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23537446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: It's been two months since Steve left Hawaii. Danny meets him in New Jersey, and shows him around.Post-finale; canon-compliant fix-it.
Series: Safely Rest 'verse/post-finale [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1826170
Comments: 115
Kudos: 194





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Отдохнуть спокойно (Safely Rest)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24336109) by [arrivabene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arrivabene/pseuds/arrivabene)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. So. I didn't hate the finale as much as I expected to? I feel like, for the casual viewer or fan, it was probably satisfying. But for me? Well. Not so much.
> 
> I honestly like Catherine and I think that she and Steve were great together— when they were together. But that was years ago, and even if they’ve kept up occasional references to Steve missing her, I just don’t see it as a conclusion for Steve to end up with her. Getting back with your ex is sort of the opposite of moving on. _And_ I am _really tired_ of seeing romantic love prioritized over platonic love, at the expense of pretty much everything else. Which is exactly what happened here.
> 
> Also, although I liked the finale's sense of closure, and the portrayal of Steve as starting to feel “better”, there's never just a switch that flips. It's not realistic to think that Steve's emotional journey is over when he gets on the plane. He still has a lot to work through. And I hope a little bit of that happens here :)

_“Day is done, gone the sun,  
From the lake, from the hill,  
From the sky.  
All is well, safely rest,  
God is nigh.”_

-commonly used “lyrics” to the bugle call _Taps_

He touches down in Newark with plenty of daylight left; they’ve officially entered the time of year that New Jersey gets more sun than Hawaii. Duffel in hand, Steve heads from the terminal.

Just a little way down from the door he sees a familiar blond head, popping out of an unfamiliar blue station wagon. Danny waves, lazily. And somehow in the swirling mixture of emotion, of relief and exhaustion, what Steve feels the most can only be labeled as butterflies in his stomach.

“No beard,” Danny notes, as Steve approaches. “Can I take that as a good sign?”

“This wasn’t a mission.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“Nice car,” Steve replies, instead of answering.

“It’s my mom’s.” Danny, as always, is squinting more than the current lighting requires. “Which also means, hate to inform you, uh, that you will not be driving it.”

“Clara said that, or you decided that?”

“Put your bag in the back, please. We’re ten seconds away from being honked at.”

Steve pops the trunk, swings his duffel inside, and regards it fondly for a moment. It deployed with him; and now it’s toured Europe with him. The zipper’s strained. There’s only the few sets of clothes that he took from Hawaii, plus a new, warmer jacket; but there’s heaps upon heaps of souvenirs for his nieces and nephew.

Steve closes the trunk and gets in, shotgun. Danny pulls away from the curb; and then they’re headed out of the airport, and onto the highway beyond.

“You look good, Danno,” Steve murmurs. And it’s not a lie. Two months later, Danny still looks a little rough; the cut above his eyebrow actually scarred, and there’s a tightness to his posture that Steve notes automatically. But, it’s been _two months_. So right now, he’s the best-looking thing that Steve’s ever laid eyes on.

“Yeah, I’m doin’ all right. I got in Tuesday morning, hung out with my folks. Then saw Bridget and the kids all day yesterday.”

“Did she— did she take the kids out of school, or is— school over?”

Danny laughs. “D’you know what month it is?”

“It’s June,” Steve replies; though to be fair he only knows that because of buying plane tickets. “It’s not unreasonable for me to think the kids are out of school.”

“It’s the first week of June, babe. They’re still in school. But hey, I guess it’s winding down, so, yeah, she took ‘em out for the day.”

“How are Grace and Charlie?”

“They’re good. They’re really good; we’ll call ‘em tonight.”

Steve nods, and tries to focus on that. He wants to ask about everybody else; but everybody else was in tears the last time he saw them. So the answer is either _still_ _bad_ or _fine now_ , and both answers would hurt, in their own ways.

“How are you, Mr. Eurotrip? How many countries was it, by the end of it?”

“Nine.”

“And you flew here from—”

“London.” Steve grins. “I got you those flaky chocolate things you like, the ones you always make Rachel bring you back.”

“See,” Danny drawls, “the fact that you just purchased them means that you know what they’re called. You know they’re called Twirls, Steven. Least, I hope you got Twirls, ‘cause there’s also Flakes—”

God, he missed this.

“So where are we going?” Steve asks, once Danny’s stopped edifying him about British chocolates.

“For now? I just got a hotel. I figured you might want a couple days before my clan descended on you. And then starting tomorrow, I made a list.”

“You made a list?”

“You wanted a list, so I made you a list. Restaurants. Destinations. Even better now, since you got a tour guide.”

“You made a list.”

“What did you think I was gonna do?”

“I didn’t actually picture anything, after the moment we'd say hello.”

“You never did say hello,” Danny notes. “You just insulted my mom’s car.”

“You’re right. Hello, Danny.”

“Hi, Steve,” Danny replies. And out of the corner of Steve’s eye, he can see his friend smiling widely.

*

Danny’s very secretive about the list. All Steve needs to do, by Danny’s account, is relax and enjoy himself, and maybe learn a thing or two about New Jersey along the way. And jeez, he must have missed Danny a _lot_ , because Steve agrees. He doesn’t ask any questions; just watches out the window as they exit the Turnpike, get on a local highway with stores on either side. Danny stops at two places, while Steve waits in the car. Then, just as the sun is finally fading, they pull into an unfancy hotel and schlep inside, carrying luggage and boxes of food.

The food, Danny reveals, is pizza and cupcakes. He and Steve sprawl across their beds as Danny talks about his favorite Italian place outside Newark and its immediate surroundings, and they’ll get there eventually, but they might as well wait for when they’re staying with his parents to eat at those…

And the cupcakes, apparently, won something called Cupcake Wars.

Steve’s not sure what a cupcake war is, but he’s not surprised that these guys won.

Three slices of pizza and two cupcakes later, Steve flops down on his pillow with a groan. He’s gained a little weight, in recent months. Not nearly enough to bump him above military standards for his height and age; but enough that his tighter shirts fit a little differently. His plan had been to buckle down and lose the extra pounds as soon as he got back to the States. But, apparently, he might need to postpone this another week.

Danny calls it quits sooner, but keeps idly picking; he’s eating the pepperoni off a slice of pizza when he breaks the comfortable silence that’s fallen.

“So.”

“So.”

“So tell me about Europe. I’ve never been outta the UK. And Germany, that time I saved your ass.”

“Ah, man. It was good.”

“Just good?”

“No, it was amazing. Really. I mean, the food was incredible. And the museums, and the architecture. I think Italy was my favorite. And thanks to you, I knew how to order off the menu like a native.”

Danny laughs, softly. He closes the pizza box, and lies back as well.

“Where’d you go in Italy?”

“Rome. And Naples. I saw Pompeii.”

“How was that?”

“Amazing. And heartbreaking. I actually got kinda emotional, seeing the casts of the people who died. One woman was pregnant.”

“Nice. I say, how was Europe. You tell me, you cried about a pregnant lady who died two thousand years ago.”

It’s Steve’s turn to laugh. They haven’t been drinking; but maybe he’s drunk off carbs, or off Danny, because he feels lighter and looser than he has in ages. He rolls all the way onto his side, mugs over at Danny. “That wasn’t s’posed to be the takeaway.”

“Well, give me a better takeaway.”

“Cannoli,” Steve breathes. “Real cannoli, with pistachios. I went on a food tour, in Rome. And I guess it was the off-season, so it was just me and this older Canadian couple. Man, I tell you what, I don’t understand it. I don’t know what the heck about me says _adopt me_. But these two, they were like in their seventies, and they sort of adopted me. When the tour ended, we kept going— asked for recommendations and went to like three more places. And we just ate— so many pastries. So many cannoli.”

Danny’s grinning again. And man, he loves making Danny grin. He lights up like a sunbeam.

“I told ‘em about you. And Gracie, and her first year in college.” Steve’s smiling too, into his pillow.

“It sounds really good, babe.”

“It was good. It was so good.”

“And— seeing Catherine. That was nice.”

“It was. It was really— nice.”

“Where’s she now?”

“I dunno.” Steve acknowledges the shift in his mood, from perfectly content to a little bit gloomy; he rides the shift, like a wave.

“That’s gotta be rough,” Danny muses.

“Eh.”

“Well— I don’t see no ring.”

Steve props himself up, just enough to look over. “You thought I was gonna get married?”

There’s no reply.

“Danno, listen to me. Number one, I don’t think I’m gonna get married. Like, ever. Number two,” he adds, deliberately lightening his tone, “number two, if I ever do get married, there is no way on God’s green earth that you’re gettin’ out of the Best Man duties, so don’t even try.”

It seems that was the right thing to say, because Danny seems to feel better now, even if Steve doesn’t. He sighs, lets his head tilt backwards. “This wasn’t about Catherine.”

“The way Lincoln tells it, you didn’t even know she’d be there.”

“I didn’t. Boarded the plane, sat down— all of a sudden she’s sittin’ next to me.”

“And you went to Paris,” Danny supplies. “With the love of your life. But this wasn’t about her.”

“It wasn’t. Man—” Steve sighs. “Catherine was the love of my life. And honestly, I’m not saying that she’s not still. But, I left to—”

He gives into fatigue, lies fully down again.

“I left to do something for myself. To really, really, just be with myself. All right? So don’t get me wrong. Paris with Catherine was nice. And I can acknowledge that if I could go back in time, five years ago, and choose to propose to her, I would. But that’s _not_ what I did. And now—”

He gestures, out of words.

“And now, you move on.”

“Yeah.”

“Scale of one to ten, how okay are you, with that? I’m just trying to gauge the level of trauma.”

“Um. Eight? Like, on average. ‘cause plenty of the time it’s a nine, but sometimes it’s a seven.”

“Okay. Not bad.”

“And once in a while it’s, like, a two. Just, out of nowhere.”

“So, I take it she wasn’t with you the whole time?”

“Nah. She came with me as far as Amsterdam. Not ‘cause we thought— I mean, both of us were pretty clear on where we stood. But she came as a friend. We saw the tulip fields.” The corners of Steve’s lips are tugging up, he can tell; even though he doesn’t feel much like smiling. “And then we went our separate ways. And I tell you, man: I did something I’ve never done before.”

“What d’you mean?”

“I said goodbye,” Steve murmurs. “Like, it was for good. No _until next time_. Not even _we’ll meet again some sunny day_. Goodbye, and thank you for being important to me for— for fifteen years. But if I never see you again, we’ve said all we need to say.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“That sounds rough, babe.”

“It was and it wasn’t.”

“Um,” Danny begins, slowly, “I’m trying to ask this— in the most sensitive way possible.”

“You are?”

“Did the fact— that this happened in _Amsterdam_ — uh. Is that a plot point, for what happened, afterwards?”

“What d’— no! No, I did not go to a prostitute, after Catherine left, Danny!”

“Not even a little?”

“I— no!” He laughs, and sits up again. “The day she left. The day she left, I bought and drank forty euros worth of wine. And then I threw up forty euros worth of wine in the hotel bathtub. And then I was too hungover to get out of bed the next day.”

Danny reacts more carefully than he usually does, restraining both the mirth and the dismay that Steve sees in his eyes. “Well,” he says, slowly, “it took ‘til your mid-forties, babe, but you actually have normal person coping mechanisms now.”

“Is that a normal person coping mechanism?”

“It really kinda is.”

“Just so I’m clear, would it have been more or less normal to go to a prostitute?”

“I didn’t actually think— ugh! You exhaust me. I can’t believe you went to Europe to find yourself.” Danny buries his face in his hands. “Make sure you let my daughter know any pointers you picked up; it’ll be her turn soon.”

“I didn’t _find myself_ in Europe, Danny.”

“Okay, but, you were trying to.” Danny looks over at him; he’s smiling again, though it’s gentler now. “I’m sorry you didn’t. But you were _trying_ to.”

“I mean,” Steve grunts, “I guess?”

“Well. I dunno what Europe’s got that Jersey doesn’t have.”

“Uh. Cobblestones. Cathedrals. What, you want me to find myself in the parking lot of a Quick Check?”

“I got a friend who lost his virginity in the parking lot of a Quick Check.”

“Do you really? Or did you just want to say that?”

Danny doesn’t answer, which is its own answer. Steve laughs again, and lies back down.

*

They sleep in, then have bagel sandwiches for breakfast. And okay, Steve can admit: the bagels are better here.

“Man,” Danny sighs. They’re eating in the car, because all five inside tables were taken. “If you like these, just wait for Jersey City.”

“Are you deliberately playing up Newark and Jersey City so that if I’m not impressed, you can, like, keep me invested ‘til the end?”

“I’m factually preparing you. Listen.” And he ticks off, on his fingers. “Newark, Jersey City, Hoboken. Three cities— sometimes more like one giant city— and it’s the city that made me, babe.”

“Is that supposed to entice me?”

“I thought it might _intrigue_ you.”

Steve hums around another mouthful; he’s maybe a little intrigued, but mostly he’s appreciating how impossibly crispy the shop made their bacon. The way it crunches against the chewiness-slash-fluffiness of the bagel is _exquisite_.

After breakfast they drive idly for a while. The highway ends and becomes honest-to-God forest; Steve just lets himself enjoy the view.

Eventually they turn south, drive to a waterfall. It’s nothing compared to the ones back home; it’s basically on the edge of a city, visibly harnessed for power and with buildings encroaching from both sides.

Steve tries, and maybe fails, to get excited.

“I don’t care if you’re not impressed,” Danny mutters, as they stand at an overlook, getting (very lightly) misted. “First fifteen, sixteen years of my life, this is the only real waterfall I ever saw. And the Sopranos did a body dump here. So, respect, please.” Danny breathes in, visibly enjoying the scent. “You know, they say the face of a woman appears to some people in the falls. If you’re worthy, or whatever. I don’t remember the story. I just remember laughing at the guy who came to our school to give an assembly about the power plant here. He said he’d seen her.”

“So I take it you never have? Seen her?”

“Nah. I still like it here, though. It’s still— it’s comforting, y’know? In a weird way.”

 _Comforting_ isn’t the word that Steve would have chosen; but hearing Danny describe the falls this way makes Steve like them a little bit more.

*

The next day, Saturday, they wake up early and head to the southern half of the state. It’s no more than a two hour drive. But Steve can sense the change, as they fly down the Turnpike and come out the other side. It’s— not small, but smaller. Not quiet, but quieter.

 _Eagles country_ , Danny calls it; because apparently this far south, they root for Philadelphia sports teams. As opposed to New York sports teams. Jersey, it seems, does not have their own.

“We’re right across the river from Philly, actually,” Danny notes, as they park. “We’ll be able to see it in a minute.”

They’re in Camden, he explains. First they visit a decommissioned battleship, converted to a museum and memorial; it floats, a familiar silhouette, on the river between the neighboring cities. They pay extra for a tour. Their guide, as it happens, is retired sailor somewhere in his seventies; he and Steve hit it off right away, and spend the 90 minutes chatting and laughing about things that the rest of the visitors (understandably) don’t care about.

Lunch is hotdogs on a shaded bench, overlooking the waterfront. Afterwards they wander a massive aquarium, housing not only fishes and sharks but penguins and hippos, and a grumpy little porcupine.

“Jesus Christ. Shoulda planned this for a weekday,” Danny grumbles, as they’re obligated, for the third or fourth time, to step out of the way and let some kids get a closer look. Steve shrugs. Crowds can hardly dampen his spirits, today.

“You know,” he ponders, as they wander back to the car. “I knew you guys were on the water. But I don’t think— I don’t think I ever thought about it.”

“ _Jersey Shore_ , man. Not that I feel that exemplifies this great state. But yeah. It’s kind of what we’re known for.”

“We gonna see some beaches?”

“Plenty of beaches. Hold your damn horses. You hungry?”

Steve is.

They leave Camden for dinner, making their way out of the urban center to a suburban, clearly middle-class hub. In this way, too, Jersey reminds him of Oahu. It’s far too small, geographically, for real separation between the have’s and the have-not’s.

In the center of a new town, they drive by metered spots. Danny turns down a side-street, street parks by some quaint pastel houses, and leads Steve a block away to the restaurant he’s chosen for dinner.

It’s a little place, vintage themed and brightly colored. To the left of the room is a long counter, in front of an old-school soda fountain; to the right are brightly colored leather booths. There’s a jukebox in one corner, balloons tied to the hostess stand.

A waitress brings them menus printed to look like old newspapers, and Steve scans a massive list that includes not only breakfast and dinner, but everything in between too— sandwiches and platter meals, about thirty different kinds of grilled cheese—

But if this is the hardest choice of the day, then he’s grateful.

“If you feel like pancakes, this is the place for ‘em,” Danny notes. “Or burgers. Or a shake.”

“Anything I shouldn’t order?”

“Salad,” Danny laughs. “If you don’t roll out of here, you did it wrong.”

But when the food arrives, Danny himself is strangely abstinent.

Steve’s ordered bacon pancakes and cheese fries; Danny’s ordered chicken parm and a cup of chicken soup. It all looks, and smells, equally amazing. But by the time Steve’s plate is half empty, Danny has only picked at some carrots and broth.

“Your food not good?” Steve prompts, gesturing with his fork.

“Naw, it’s good. Just not too hungry.”

And with that, something that’s been poking at the back of Steve’s mind for two days now suddenly comes to the fore.

“You’ve lost weight, Danny.”

“Yeah." He snorts. "I got shot. Kinda kills the appetite.”

“You’ve gotten shot before. Man, one time you were shot and attacked by a bioweapon in the same week. And you didn’t lose a pound.”

Danny shrugs. “I’m not as young as I used to be.”

But the thing is? They know each other too well, for that to work.

“Tell me what you’re not telling me,” Steve orders.

“Excuse me?”

“Tell me what you’re not telling me, right now, Danny.”

“I, uh.” For a second Danny just works his tongue around, inside his mouth. “I had some complications, after you left.”

“What kind of complications?”

“Infection. And then sepsis.”

“How bad?”

Danny says nothing.

“How bad was it, Danny?”

“Not at death’s door. Not parked in death’s driveway. Cruisin’ his neighborhood, maybe.”

“How many days were you in the hospital?” Because that’s quantifiable; that’s not open to slant.

There’s a sigh. “Twelve.”

“How many days in ICU?”

“Four.”

“And the long-term prognosis?”

“No baseline cognitive tests, obviously, but by all accounts I’m as competent as ever. Take that as you will.” Danny forces a smile, falsely bright. “And for the record, I’ve gained a lot of weight back. ‘bout twenty pounds down, at the worst. Only about five down now. The aches, they may last. But, I’ve had pain in at least one joint every day since I was sixteen. Stop making that face,” he adds, not quite gently.

“I don’t understand why you didn’t call me.”

“You were off. You were walkin’ the world.”

“You don’t think I’d’ve come back?” He scoffs. “Or even, that I might want to know?”

“Are you okay—”

“No,” Steve responds, maybe faster than he’s ever answered that question before. “No, I’m not, Danny. I need to know that— if I leave you alone, you’ll be all right.”

“Maybe I won’t be.” Danny flashes a smile; it’s sharp and it’s _miserable_. “D’you ever think of that? Maybe I won’t be, Steve.”

Steve's chest has turned to stone. His lungs fight to expand, contract, but all they do is hit walls and give up.

“Don’t blame me that you didn’t tell me,” Steve gets out. “That was nobody’s choice but yours.”

“I’m not mad that you weren’t there for that specific thing. But yeah, I’m, I’m, I’m having some trouble processing that maybe you won’t be there for the rest of it.” He stabs a finger against the linoleum tabletop. “I know very fucking well what it means to move away. I know, you make all the noises about keeping in touch. But you never do. It doesn’t work that way.”

“Maybe you didn’t, but I would!”

“You love to go dark! It’s practically your hobby!”

“Yeah, but, I wouldn’t not keep in touch with you—”

“You have been my rock for ten years, Steve,” Danny snaps. “So frankly, I don’t care if you remember to call for my birthday once a year. You left me on that goddamn beach and I just cried. Okay? I didn’t stop crying for the rest of the goddamn day. So ask me again”— he’s all but snarling by now— “ _why I didn’t tell you I was sick._ ”

Steve doesn't respond.

He still hasn't responded, a full minute later, when the waitress returns to their side.

“Can I get you two anything else?” she prompts, voice bright.

“Yeah, uh.” Steve forces a smile. “Can we get the check, and some boxes, please?”

And maybe she takes pity on them; or maybe she wants the two hyperemotional grown-ass men out of her nice little restaurant ASAP. Either way, she’s back in no time. Steve shoves too much cash in her direction, and accepts some Styrofoam containers with a grunt of thanks.

“Don’t take mine,” Danny grumbles, as Steve dumps out their plates. “I don’t want it.”

“Maybe I’ll eat it,” Steve snaps, although he hasn’t got much of an appetite now, either. Danny just grabs the boxes, and stalks all the way to the car without once looking back.

Steve has no idea where they’re going; he can only hope it’s close. In the passenger’s seat he glares, unseeing, out the window, and does all he can not to study Danny out of the corner of his eye.

They pull off at the first motel they pass. The parking lot is pretty full, and while Danny goes to check them in, Steve worries that there won’t be vacancies. But apparently there are. Ten minutes Danny’s back, grunting wordlessly for Steve grab his bag and follow him to a dull, scratched-up door.

Danny unlocks it, kicks it open.

Inside there’s a cigarette-burned armchair, and one king-sized bed.

“They didn’t have any fucking double rooms,” Danny informs him.

 _Then why didn’t we get two rooms_ , Steve starts to say— but stops himself in time.

That Danny was willing to take this room is maybe the only glimmer of hope that Steve’s gotten for an hour, now.

The hope doesn’t last. Danny’s no sooner heaved his suitcase onto one side of the bed than he’s pulling a sweatshirt on and heading back outside. “Goin’ for a walk,” he mumbles, over his shoulder.

“Take your room key.”

“I have my fucking room key!” Danny snaps. Then the door slams. And Steve turns on the TV, lies at the very edge of the bed, and tries to control his breathing.

Danny’s gone for well over two hours. And after he returns, the tension in the room is almost unbearable. Steve’s heart is racing, stomach sour, and there’s nothing he can do without drawing Danny’s attention. So he just sits there, and stews.

Maybe he’s being insensitive. But, fuck, maybe Danny’s being a little insensitive too! Did he ever think of that? Danny’s been through shit. Obviously. A cop’s job isn’t easy— and neither is a father’s. Danny’s lost partners, and his brother, and he almost lost his daughter. He has shit to keep him up at night.

But, fuck. He also has two healthy parents, alive and loving him. He’s got two healthy kids, who adore him beyond words.

And, sorry, he’s been through a lot, but he has never been to war.

And suddenly that fact— a fact that’s always mattered, but never overwhelmed— suddenly that fact seems to form a wall right in between them, half a mile high.

Danny’s been hurt. He’s felt alone. But he’s never _been_ alone like Steve’s been, not really.

So who the fuck is he to judge?

If Steve needs to run, who the fuck is Danny to stop him?

*

It’s a long night. Steve barely sleeps. Danny turns the light off without asking if Steve’s ready for bed; so he just lays there in the dark, trying not to hate the sound of Danny breathing. Trying not to breathe audibly, himself. He’s got reflux so bad that if he doesn’t get up and take some antacids he’ll feel like shit all day tomorrow, but that involves moving. And that involves reminding Danny that he’s there.

Eventually he drifts, but it isn’t restful; it’s the kind of sleep where dreams feel more like thoughts you can’t control. He’s too hot, then too cold; almost feverish. He sleeps at the very edge of the mattress and more than once he jerks awake, actually almost falling.

Time passes. At some point, Steve realizes that it’s getting light out.

Not too long after that, the bed shifts, like Danny’s sitting up.

“Hey.” The familiar voice just barely breaks the drone of the AC unit. “Are you awake?”

“Yeah.”

Danny sighs. Once the breath is out of him, it’s still half a minute before he speaks.

“Listen. Steve. I overreacted. And, I’m sorry.”

Steve buries his face in the pillow, and stays there for a long moment. Then he hauls himself upright. “I’m sorry too.”

“I got upset. That’s no excuse for bein’ a jerk.”

“Hey, I can’t get mad at you for not keepin’ me in the loop when I’m the one that left.”

“Well. I guess I can’t get mad at you for not wanting to come back, when I’m the one not keeping you in the loop.”

He’s not quite ready to respond to that, so Steve just shifts closer on the bed. “You doin’ okay?”

“Eh." Danny waves, vaguely. "We gave me agita.”

Steve snorts. “Dude, me too.”

“My whole stomach was a wreck all night. I kept thinking, holy shit, I’m gonna have the shits, I’m gonna have the shits on the other side of the wall from the guy I’m in a fight with.”

“Yeah, I don’t like fighting with you, man.” There’s actually kind of a lump in Steve’s throat. “I mean, arguing, ’m more than happy to argue with you. But. It’s different.”

“It’s very different.”

Danny turns his head sideways, making eye contact for the first time in a while; and something between them eases, passes. “You mind if we just go back to sleep for a little bit?”

“That sounds so good,” Steve breathes, and sinks backwards. “Oh, man.”

“You need some water, or anything—?”

“Nah. No, just— lie down, huh? Just— gimme your hand.”

There’s a huff of laughter; then Danny reaches out and wraps his fingers around Steve’s. They squeeze a long moment, before letting go.

“Lie down,” Steve says again; he settles on his back this time, comfortably distanced from the edge.

Danny starts on his back, too. Then, without a sound, Steve sees Danny curl up on his side, facing towards him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you missed the tags, I am in fact from New Jersey! I've lived all over the state and I've been meaning to write a really Jersey!Danny fic for years. In case you're local, or ever visiting, here are the restaurants and locations mentioned/alluded to:
> 
> Taste of Tuscany (restaurant, Clifton, NJ); House of Cupcakes (cupcake shop, Clifton, NJ); Clifton Bagels (cafe, Clifton, NJ); Great Falls of Paterson (park, Paterson, NJ); Battleship New Jersey (museum, Camden, NJ); Adventure Aquarium (aquarium, Camden, NJ); Pop Shop (restaurant, Collingswood, NJ)
> 
> Hotels/motels not based on anywhere real, because... I've never needed to stay in one, here :D


	2. Chapter 2

It’s full daylight, when Steve wakes again. Tiny shadows curl across the popcorn ceiling; and maybe it’s a psychological thing, from knowing the sun’s up, but the AC isn’t making him cold anymore. He rolls over, to face his still-sleeping friend.

Danny’s hair is a mess, his pompadour loose and collapsed forward; with a silent laugh, Steve pushes it back in place. Danny twitches, and burrows deeper under the covers.

“Sorry,” Steve whispers. He’s not really sorry for how he woke Danny up— Danny loves his hair being petted, even if he’d never say so— but he has no intentions of letting the guy go back to sleep again. So maybe he’s a little sorry for that.

Danny groans, and sniffles. Then he rolls onto his back, groans again, and yawns.

“How you feelin’?” Steve prompts, quietly.

“Mm. Fine. Hungry.” Another sniffle. “You good?”

“Yeah. I’m glad we slept more.”

“We c’ld sleep _more_ more,” Danny mumbles, and Steve laughs out loud this time. “Don’ make fun of me. Y’re comin’ from like five hours ahead; ’m comin’ from six hours behind.”

“It’s almost ten. And I assume checkout’s eleven.”

“Ugh. Point taken. I guess.”

“Tell you what. I gotta shower, how ‘bout you nap ‘til I’m done?”

Danny nods; and immediately dozes.

Entirely for Danny’s benefit, Steve takes an absurdly long shower. Then he shaves. He hadn’t gotten close to a full-on beard, but he’d been growing the same stubble since Norway (two weeks? maybe a little less?), so. The time had come.

By the time he wanders back into the room, groomed and dressed, Danny’s awake and scrolling on his phone. Seeing Steve, he grumbles. But it’s nothing personal, and Steve knows that: instead it’s displeasure at having to actually get out of bed for real now.

Understandable. It’s a comfortable bed, and it’s nice and warm, too.

So once Danny’s in the bathroom, Steve lies down in the spot he just vacated; no sense in letting the warmth go to waste, after all.

He doesn’t mean to sleep more, but apparently he does. He comes awake again to Danny laughing, bludgeoning his legs with a pillow. “Hey Mr. Navy Shower. We gotta check out in— twenty-four minutes.”

“One minute walk to the front desk,” Steve yawns. “Five minutes to pack, an’ that’s more’n generous.”

Danny makes a noise of vague disapproval; but even as he does so, he’s crawling in, covering them both with the comforter.

It’s weirdly nice sharing a bed. Steve wonders if Danny would be willing to do it again, on purpose.

“Hey.” Steve props himself up on his elbows. “Just— something real quick.”

“You got eighteen minutes,” Danny mutters.

“There was just— one thing you said, earlier— and I just wanted to, like. Say something?”

“Okay.”

Steve sighs, before he can stop himself. “You said I don’t want to come back. It’s not that I don’t wanna come back.”

Danny props himself up too, just enough to look over. “Then what is it? And that’s not me trying to be passive aggressive,” he adds, quickly. “I swear. That’s not me coming at you. I’m just trying to understand.”

“I’m tired,” Steve breathes. “More than tired, I’m— I’m burnt out. And Hawaii means home. But it also means Five-0. I can’t, realistically, see myself going back and not just pickin’ up where I left off, with the team.”

“And you don’t think that you might be ready to do that, after a little while? To come back to the team?”

Steve takes a deep breath. In four seconds, hold four seconds. Out four seconds, hold four seconds.

“No, I don’t.”

Danny nods, and sits up. The he reaches over and scrubs fondly at the back of Steve’s neck, which is maybe the only reason that Steve finds his way back from that moment.

“Couple of years ago,” Steve continues, after Danny’s kept it up for half a minute, then pulled away. “After the transplant. One of my old instructors from the ANA reached out. Said he heard what had happened, knew I might not be fit for, uh. What I’d been doing. He said there would always be room for me there. And— I can see myself doing that, y’know? Maybe I couldn’t have a few years ago. But now, I can see me being good at that. And being— happy with it.”

Danny nods again; this time it’s his thoughtful nod, with his bottom lip stuck out. “I guess I’d rather have you safe in California than wandering the wide world.”

“Mm.”

“The academy, that’s not too far from LA, right? So you’d have Mary and Joanie. And Jerry! And Chin— I guess San Francisco’s not really _close_ , but it’s closer than it is now.”

“Yeah, I got— I definitely got people in California.”

“And I’d come to you a couple times a year. And you’d come to me a couple. LA to Honolulu’s not _that_ bad.”

It’s six hours, Steve thinks; but doesn’t say out loud. Danny knows how long it is.

He lets himself sink back, fully prone again. “I know I’ll feel better once I just _decide_. Either way. But— I’m not ready to make a decision.”

“Okay. Hey. You don’t have to decide anything right now. I promise. Let’s get you feelin’ better first. And everything else can wait.”

“Thanks,” Steve mumbles.

“You know it, babe. Okay. Let’s check out and go drink some wine.”

Steve stutters out a laugh, and finally hauls himself upright. “At eleven in the morning?”

“Not get drunk. Just do a few tastings. We’re almost to wine country.”

“Wine coun—? You got the right coast, Danno?”

“Oh, I have the right coast, Steven,” Danny replies, with a grin.

*

New Jersey, as it turns out, makes wine. Good wine. Sweet wine and dry wine, white wine and red, and this stuff that Danny calls _fruit wine_ — which is funny, because all wine comes from fruit. But this isn’t grape wine with notes of other fruit, or even flavored with other fruit.

This is wine made from peaches, and apples, and blueberries. Not a grape in sight. Wine made from strawberries and pomegranates and sugar plums, and holy shit, it’s all so fucking good that Steve can’t help but finish every fucking pour.

“I can’t claim that Jersey’s the only place that does this,” Danny notes. “Pretty sure I’ve seen pineapple wine in Hawaii. But Jersey does do it best.”

Well, Steve can’t imagine anyone doing it better.

He’s buzzed before they leave the first winery.

Danny lounges at his side, drinking less and talking less (surprisingly), but smiling even more. It’s a soft, amused smile. An indulgent smile, the kind he gets when he’s spoiling Charlie or Grace— not that he spoils them quite like this! But at a visceral level Steve knows that that’s exactly what’s going on here. Danny steps back and lets Steve pick which wines they’ll try, lets Steve finish Danny’s own pours of the ones Steve likes best. Buys Steve souvenir glasses, at the wineries where they’re not free with a tasting. Talks Steve up to the sommeliers until they flirt with him and, at the fourth winery, bring him a cheese plate on the house.

Steve lets himself be spoiled.

Normally he’s not very good at that, but the wine makes it go down easy.

*

Danny cuts them off after five places (as he should). Steve’s unequivocally _plastered_ now, though it’s a very pleasant sort of plastered. In the car, he lists against the window, and chuckles quietly.

“You good?” Danny prompts.

“’m good. I’m happy.”

“Good.”

“I like us doin’ stuff like this. Like. Just. Normal stuff. ‘steada savin’ the island every five minutes.”

“Steven, I— am actually speechless. That I just heard that come out of your mouth. Actually speechless.”

Steve glances lazily sideways, tries to focus his spinning vision on Danny’s familiar face. “Bu’ you like it, right?”

“Are you kidding me? Do I _like_ drinking wine with you? Do I _like_ relaxing and going nice places and taking long drives with my _best freaking friend_? Yes. I like it. You goof.”

“’kay,” Steve croaks. “I like it too.”

“Well. We’ll do it more, okay?” Danny sounds like he’s looking over, though by now Steve’s eyes have closed. “No matter where the two of us end up, we’ll make it a point to do more stuff like this.”

“Okay,” Steve murmurs. “Okay.” He’s maybe choked up a little, but in the very best of ways. It reminds him of the Christmas that Danny first hung up an extra stocking, just for him.

Steve drifts, tapping along to the music from station wagon’s stereo. Bon Jovi’s New Jersey album: Danny’s got it on CD, and hasn’t let them listen to anything else all week. Steve knows all the songs by now. This is _Homebound Train_ , a favorite: the lyrics are a little sad, if you really listen, but the song itself is energetic and slick and exultant and angry.

“ _I'm on my way_ ,” the radio howls, “ _I'm heading home, to be with my baby, where I belong— coming down the tracks now_ , _see, I done my time_ , _I'm going back now, to that home of mine—"_

Steve opens his eyes, intent on saying more nice things.

“ _Well, here I come, baby, here I come baby_ —"

There’s just so many nice things he could say.

So he opens his mouth, too— but in the end, something different comes out.

“Hey, Danny?”

“Mm?”

“Think I migh’ throw up.”

Danny sighs.

The car changes lanes, and Steve’s stomach hurries to catch up; despite it all he just starts laughing.

Bon Jovi’s still singing. He’s going all the way home.

The car stops. Steve unbuckles, flings the door open, and leans out.

He belches, giggles, belches again; and a wave of hot nastiness comes up and splatters onto the blacktop.

It’s not a lot, but it definitely counts as throw-up. Steve groans, and spits a few times.

Then laughs some more. Holy shit, this is— this is just not something he does.

Except apparently it is.

His mouth tastes terrible. His stomach is a seething pit of alcohol and acid. But still, this is— kind of— an experience worth having?

Sort of.

Doesn’t mean he’s happy about it, when he throws up a second time.

“It’s okay, officer,” Danny sighs, loudly, “we’re actually cops, too. Yes, if you can believe it. Yes, I promise I’m sober. Do you need me to walk a straight line? Miraculously, as a grown-ass man, I can go wine-tasting and _not_ get blackout drunk at three in the afternoon.”

“Not blackout!” Steve protests.

“Yeah, that’s my best friend. Not only is he a cop but he’s a navy-freaking-SEAL. Right? You _would_ think he could hold his fucking alcohol!

“Hol’ it fine,” Steve mutters. “’m jus’ carsick.”

Danny laughs, and stops talking to imaginary beat cops. “You’re not carsick, you big jerk. You’ve been fine all week, don’t blame my driving!”

Pretty sure he’s done now, Steve hauls himself back inside. “Still your faul’,” he points out. Because it’s true. He’s never been to five wineries in one day before. He’s probably never been to five wineries, total, in his entire life, before. “An’s your fault the car smells li’ chick’n parm. You forgot the takeou’ boxes las’ night.”

“We both forgot the takeout boxes last night. We were emotionally compromised.”

“Aigh’. Aigh’. Well. ‘syour fault I jus’ drank— drank th’s much on a’ empty stomach. Huh?”

“You had some cheese! Ugh. Okay,” Danny laughs, audibly giving up. “I’ll take the blame, babe. Listen, I saw a sign for a rest stop like two miles up from here. You good to drive that far?”

“Mm. Probably.”

“ _Probably_ ,” Danny mocks. “We love it.”

Steve makes it. A few minutes later they’re pulling off the highway; it’s a little rest stop, Steve notes dizzily, just some picnic tables and a port-a-john. No buildings. No other cars. Nobody to witness their stupid little wonderful adventure, at least not for the moment.

“All right, Steven,” Danny huffs, killing the engine. “You sleep it off. Least ‘til you’re okay to be in a moving vehicle.”

Sitting still, he feels better already. The nausea’s receded and, absurd as it may be, there’s a feeling of absolute safety, like Kevlar outfitting him head to toe. Untouchable.

Still there’s a badness, that starts from the inside.

“Danny?”

Danny’s voice is soft, not worried but not quite amused now, either. “What’s up, kid? Y’gonna be sick again?”

“No.” He breathes deep. “I keep thinkin’— of other things I shoulda said. Shoulda said, before.”

“It’s okay. What’s up?”

“’m not tryina— like, keep draggin’ us back, but— I jus’ keep thinkin’ of other stuff I hadda say.”

“What didn’t you say, Steve?”

“’m sorry I left,” Steve whispers, “when you w’re still hurt. I shoulda waited. ‘m sorry.”

“But you didn’t know. I didn’t tell you.”

“Nah th’infection. Jus’. You got shot, Dan. An’ I left anyway. An’ ‘m. I’m really sorry.”

The touch on his neck is warm, but it still makes him shiver; the movement spreads downwards, all the way to his feet and hands, until his whole body is simply trembling.

“Okay,” Danny murmurs, like he’s not quite talking to anyone in particular. “Okay. Wow.”

And then out of nowhere there’s a soft grey sweatshirt being pressed into Steve’s hands.

“I’ll be a little upset if you puke on that, just FYI.”

“Okay,” Steve whispers. He sticks his arms in the sleeves; can’t get the rest of it over his head, so he just hugs it in a ball against his chest.

“Just sleep it off, okay?”

“I prayed,” Steve murmurs. “When you w’re in surgery. I mean, I really, really fucking prayed.” He needs Danny to _know that_.

“Okay,” Danny chuffs, and it sounds like he’s smiling a little. “I’m okay, babe. I am. You’re drunk, and I’m okay.”

“I know.”

“Don’t get upset. Hey, I get it. You’re still processing, I get that. But not right now, Steve. Right now I want you to close your eyes, and take a break. I mean it.”

“Okay,” Steve whispers, and then the world goes quiet.

*

Steve doesn’t know how long he sleeps. But by the time he wakes, Danny’s barefoot, seat pushed all the way back and cracked heels propped up on the dashboard. His hands are folded behind his head. His phone is propped precariously on the steering wheel, playing Netflix; but Danny’s eyes are unfocused, aimed right through the ceiling.

“Wh’re y’thinkin’ ‘bout, Danno?”

Danny doesn’t startle; maybe Steve made some noise as he began to wake up, or maybe Danny’s more attuned to his surroundings than his expression would suggest.

“Um.” Danny sighs, loudly. He turns his phone off. “Thinkin’ about how I made fun of you for going abroad to find yourself, like some twenty-year-old schmuck.”

“’kay.”

“But then I kinda started thinking, that you never really got to be a twenty-year-old schmuck. Huh?”

“No.” Steve eases the seat upright; it makes his head pound. “I really didn’t.”

“And I think, when I remember that— that all of this makes a lot more sense to me.” Danny chuckles. “Me, I was such a punk in high school, I was almost done all this shit by the time I was twenty. You and I both grew up too fast. But I sped. I didn’t skip. You skipped. You skipped some stuff in the middle, there.”

“Yeah, I did,” Steve murmurs.

“Okay.” Danny swings his legs down. “Okay. That doesn’t mean that was cute, though, Steven.”

“What wasn’t?”

“Pukin’ by the side of the road. That isn’t even cute when you’re twenty. And you’re twice that age. _And_ you don’t even have your factory-installed liver. So let’s not do that again, huh?”

“Not planning on it,” Steve replies, voice a croak; it’s mostly, but not entirely, for dramatic effect. “Good wine, though. I’ll admit, I didn’t believe you.”

“What’d I tell ya? Jersey’s got class, babe.”

“Dunno if I’d go that far.”

Danny smirks, and pulls his seat forward. “You okay to get back on the road?”

“I’ll let you know ‘f I’m not,” Steve replies, and flashes his best half-hungover-half-still-drunk smile.

They find a motel without incident. Have late dinner at a place that Danny’s never been to before but, as he explains, _random diners are their own tradition_. Then, with greasy, wine-absorbing food in his stomach, Steve sleeps well.

*

“So. We have been waylaid,” Danny announces, as they shove their duffels into the station wagon the next morning. This is the fourth room they’re saying goodbye to. They all blend together in Steve’s mind, into one musty-yet-comforting space, as if his home for the time being is nothing more or less than the Platonic ideal of motels.

“How have we been waylaid?”

“Beats me. You’re the one that keeps havin’ feelings.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “I’ll restate that: what have we been waylaid _from_?”

“Your lessons. This may be a trip of self-discovery but it is also the discovery of a wonderful, and much-maligned, state.”

Steve laughs. He’s feeling pretty good today, and not at all hungover— an argument, it seems, for getting drunk in the afternoon instead of the evening. “What’s today’s lesson, professor?”

Danny takes a deep breath.

Today’s lesson, it turns out, is on the local cryptid: the Jersey Devil, a winged beast who lives in the southern half of the state. Everybody knows somebody who’s seen it. And Danny— skeptical, disbelieving Danny— gives half a dozen secondhand accounts, a few of which he actually seems to put stock in.

“Jerry know about this?” Steve grunts, at some point.

“Uh, I’m sure he does. Don’t think we’ve ever discussed it, but, y’know. All states have folklore, but the Jersey Devil is among the better known.”

“Uh-huh. And, what makes this more believable than not takin’ pork over the Pali?”

Danny scoffs, loudly. “What makes a mutant more believable than a goddess screwin’ a pig-man? How ‘bout the fact that mutations occur every day—”

“We goin’ to find the cabin of Mother Leeds?” Steve grumbles, when Danny finally shuts up. But this time Danny only laughs.

“No. We’re not. Something else nice and Jersey, though.”

“Uh. Find Jimmy Hoffa?”

“Wrong part of the state.”

“The hair gel mines?”

Danny snorts. “No. It’s called Wheaton Village. It’s, uh. It’s not one hundred percent my speed, at least it wasn’t when I went, y’know, twenty years ago. But I think you’ll like it.”

“It’s like, a historical place? Like reenactments?”

“No, it’s not historical. You’re thinking of— I dunno what you’re thinking of, but no, it’s not that. It’s where they make glass. There’s a big glass industry, in this part of the state.”

Something in Danny’s expression stops Steve from teasing him. Because, honestly? A glass factory isn’t really his speed, either, but Danny obviously thinks that he’ll like it, enough that he’s bothered to drive them out to what really is the middle of nowhere. The least he can do is feign enthusiasm.

*

He feigns it for all of three minutes.

Danny, it seems, knows him better than he knows himself— no real surprise there.

The place is amazing: no feigning necessary. It’s not a glass factory, per se; there are plenty of those around too, he learns, but where they are now is not even slightly industrial. It’s glass making as an artform.

First they walk through a small museum. Some of what’s on display is art for art’s sake; some are more practical pieces, like water pitchers, medicine bottles. The glass is colored in delicate teals, stout blues, milky whites. Steve challenges himself to find a blue the color of the Hawaiian ocean, then a blue the color of Danny’s eyes, then a brown the color of Grace’s.

In the building next store they come across a live demonstration. They join the dozen or so other people who stand and watch through a massive window as one of the glassmiths works, wending together rods whose red-hot glow obscures their true colors.

Steve tries to guess what it’ll become. He waits for the moment that the smith will begin to blow the glass, expand it into a vase or some other vessel— but it never comes. Instead the glass is shaped carefully, twisted against concave metal.

And when it’s finished, the sphere that the smith started with hasn’t changed much in size or shape— it’s just a perfect little marble.

The other onlookers, chattering, move away.

Steve makes Danny stay to watch the whole process, twice more through.

He’d probably make him stay longer, honestly, if the demonstration didn’t end then; strangely satisfied, Steve heads out for some air. Danny needs the bathroom, says he’ll join him in a minute.

Back out on the lawn, Steve finds a bench and sprawls with his legs stretched as far as they please. The weather is gorgeous. Drier than back home, and with the scent of different trees on the wind; but it’s just as warm today, and almost as sunny.

“Heads up.” Danny pops down beside him.

“Hm?” Steve hums; because _heads up_ is a weird way to say hello.

“Hand out.”

That’s an even stranger directive, so Steve complies immediately; he extends his right hand, palm up. Danny drops something into it, small and solid.

“Woulda been neat t’take home one’f the ones we saw him make. But I guess they, uh, take a long time to cool. Like, a _long_ time. But anyway, same guy made this one.”

In Steve’s hand is a marble. With just a momentary glance, it could be mistaken for a child’s toy— the kind of mass-produced cat’s eye you can purchase by the dozen.

It’s not. At all.

It’s a tiny work of art.

It’s a perfect glass orb, about the size of a small cherry; in just that miniscule space, Steve can see veins of eight or nine different colors. Some are opaque— yellow, orange, pink, white. Multiple blues. Some are translucent— red, grey, more blues. A tiny tornado of bubbles winds through the core and branches through the separate swirls; and the bubbles themselves are perfect little spheres. It catches the light in a hundred different places.

Steve doesn’t realize how long he’s been silent until Danny prompts, in a voice that’s unusually sincere, “d’you, uh, like it?”

“Yeah. Yeah, no, I— I really like it, Danno.” Can’t take his eyes off it, to be precise. “Thanks. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Danny replies; and thwacks him on the back. “Okay. Well. That’s it for the artisanry. The artisanship? Um. Now comes the kitsch, if you’re up for it?”

Steve’s up for it.

Across a lawn from the museum, designed to look like a village, is a cluster of shops and boutiques. Everything’s overpriced, of course. They resist temptation— apart from the bag of old-timey candies that Danny buys from the so-called General Store.

Afterwards they settle on a bench, Danny frowning at a map. “They had a restaurant here,” he mutters. “I swear they did. The Paperweight or something like that, I swear.”

“You wanna go ask the cashier in the store?”

“Nah.” Danny sighs, lowers the paper. “That girl woulda been in diapers last time I came here. Guess they, uh, changed some stuff. What can y’do?”

“I don’t care,” Steve replies, honestly. “I’m good with lunch wherever. What?”

“What what?”

“Why’re you laughing at me?”

“I’m not laughing at you. I’m glad you like it.” Danny nods downward, and Steve realizes that he’s pulled out the marble and is rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. He didn’t even mean to. And it’s maybe the third or fourth time he’s done it since Danny bought the thing for him— which was roughly one hour ago. “I thought you might laugh at me for buyin’ it for you.”

“I like it. It’s— I like— that it’s— smooth,” Steve finishes, for want of a better adjective.

“Okay, now I’m laughing at you,” Danny replies, even though he’s not. “Let’s go find food.”

*

Lunch is uninspiring, but Steve enjoys it nevertheless. Afterwards they head farther south, taking backroads in a quest to follow the local river as it snakes down to the bay.

Where the river ends, they find a lighthouse. It’s a funny little structure, like nothing either of them has ever seen before; it’s not a tapering cylinder, just a red and white house with the platform and lantern emerging from the middle of the roof.

They poke around, climb the short distance to the top. Then they wander the nearby rocks for a while; it leaves Steve with such a yearning for a real hike that when they drive back out, they stop at the first trailhead they see. From there, they hike for two hours or more. Decidedly untropical, deciduous trees come within yards of humid marshlands, and all right, Steve sees how Danny could love it here. It’s not just cities and suburbs and tourist beaches. There’s nature here, real unclaimed land; this, he hadn’t expected.

There’s space enough to _breathe_.

“Okay,” Danny opens, once they’re finally back to the car. “Okay. Last stop of the day, first beach of the trip.”

Steve hums contentedly. “You gonna tell me what to expect, or let me see it for myself?”

“Well, I will give background that this one we’re goin’ to isn’t typical for Jersey.”

“In what way?”

“You want me to spoil it?”

“I guess not,” Steve admits. He’s taken the marble out of his pocket again, and he holds it up to the late afternoon light that’s streaming through the window on the passenger’s side.

It’s clear from the moment they park, what makes this place unique: it’s a shingle beach. Rather than sand, the ground at the edge of the water is made of pebbles, too new to have been broken down more finely. 

They’ll have to keep their shoes on, but it’s a fair trade-off.

“So I guess some of ‘em are like, pure quartz?” Danny notes, as they make their way to the water. “And they’re called Cape May diamonds. ‘cause they look like rough little diamonds. At least, they do when you’re eight, and don’t realize you can buy a handful in the gift shop for five bucks.”

“Nice,” Steve replies, no sarcasm intended.

“You like shiny things.” Danny’s spreading out a blanket now. “You should look for some.” And he settles on the covered rocks.

Steve doesn’t, at least not purposefully; instead he takes off his shoes and wanders down to the water’s edge. Even that short distance, even on his well-calloused feet, smarts a little. But it’s worth it to put his toes in the water— freezing cold and much murkier than Hawaii’s, but innately soothing nevertheless. He thumbs the marble in his pocket. Stares out over the water, where waves disguise the noises of the handful of other visitors, talking and laughing.

And he tries not to think too deeply. His track record, with more-than-superficial thoughts, isn’t too flattering as of late. But at the water’s edge, Danny no more than twenty feet away, something rises at the back of his mind, and he lets it.

 _I can do this_ , Steve thinks. _I can do this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Genuine thanks for all your kind comments. I haven't been in the best place these past few weeks (nothing serious, just the blahs) and every new inbox genuinely makes me smile. I'm pouring a lot of myself into this, while also being just (irrationally?) sad that one of my favorite shows is over. I'm really glad you all are enjoying the story that comes out of that.
> 
> [Jersey note: No real restaurants mentioned in this one, but Wheaton Village is an actual place and absolutely worth a visit. (It's called Wheaton Arts and Cultural Center now, but Danny knows it by its old name because he hasn't been there in a while.) The boys also visit East Point Lighthouse and Sunset beach. I _tried_ to work in the names of some wineries, but it just didn't fit organically into the story. But I _adore_ my state's wine region, and I am sincerely happy to give recommendations. Seriously. Like, I don't care how long it's been since I posted this; message me and I will talk your fucking ear off about Jersey wine.]


	3. Chapter 3

He waits until the icy water actually starts to bother him; then Steve heads back up to where Danny’s sitting with his knees to his chest.

“You commune with the Atlantic?”

Steve can’t find anything pithy to say back; so he just smiles.

“Joke’s on you,” Danny continues; he gives a lazy stretch, that ends with his legs straightened out. “We’re still on the bay. That’s why this place is called Sunset beach; ‘s the only part of the coast that faces west.”

Ah. He’s usually pretty tuned-in, geographically, but Steve hadn’t considered that. It’s true, the sun is setting over the water. If they were facing east, it would rise over the water and set inland.

It still counts. They’re not too far from the ocean, really; and this water will be that water before long.

“You mind staying ‘til it sets?” Steve asks, sitting besides Danny now.

“Figured you’d want to. Shiny things and sunsets; this is McGarrett-oriented beach, right here.”

“Sure you don’t mind? It’ll be another half hour, ish.”

“I literally don’t mind. Here, you want a sweatshirt?” And Danny proffers the same grey sweatshirt that Steve had worn when he felt sick yesterday. He hadn’t even noticed him take it from the car.

Part of him wants to insist he’s warm enough; but Danny would see through that in a heartbeat. So Steve takes it and puts it on. This possibly makes the sweatshirt an official comfort item; though why he needs comfort right now, Steve doesn’t know. He’s feeling good. It’s been a perfect day.

“So, just so—” Danny begins. And it doesn’t escape Steve that he sidles a little closer as he does so. “Just so you’re ready, or whatever, they do a kinda ceremony here. Every day at sunset.”

“What kind of ceremony?”

“Uh, for the flag? Lowering the flag.”

Danny nods up the beach a ways, where there’s a large American flag flying stoically against the soft sky. The thought makes him smile. He’s had to get used to plenty of people not actually taking their flags down at night; it doesn’t bother him, per se, but it’s nice to see protocol being followed. Tradition being honored.

“So,” Danny says again. “Just so you know.”

There’s something almost like concern in Danny’s voice, and Steve smiles again; it’s been almost ten years and he’s still never sure when Danny will decide to yank his chain and when Danny will decide to treat him very, _very_ gently. He can’t say he minds that this trip has been mostly the latter.

Danny’s so close that their arms are pressing now. Steve combs through rocks with one hand, idly looking for so-called diamonds; and together they watch the sun drop closer towards the water.

“Hey,” Danny says, at some point; then he stands. Steve stands too.

By the bottom of a flag pole, a small group has gathered. Some of them wear veteran’s caps; Steve can’t read the words from this distance, but he knows them when he sees them. He sees them now, and he feels them, in the pit of his stomach.

“They’re, uh. They’re burial flags.” Danny’s voice is maybe a fourth of its usual volume, and Steve strains to hear it over the ambient noises of the beach. “Families, y’know, they take the flag out of the display case, and it flies here, for a day. The waiting list to have yours flown is something like a year long.”

His voice softens further. “When I was a kid, we flew my grandpa’s flag here.”

Steve just nods.

A glance to his left shows him that the sun is now a hairsbreadth from the horizon. To the right, on the beach, others are beginning to stand, shush children, remove hats.

Next to him, Danny sighs unsteadily. “Jesus, this always gets me,” he mutters. But at least he can still force some words out; so he’s doing much better than Steve is.

A bugler steps forward. The last of the chatter from the beach goes silent. Then the flag begins to lower, and Taps begins to play, at precisely the moment that sun touches water.

_Day is done, gone the sun, from the lake, from the hill, from the sky—_

(Steve’s mind adds the words, without trying.)

_All is well, safely rest. God is nigh._

The call stops. The flag is down, and being folded.

The sun disappears. And the fact that it will rise again in mere hours is no comfort when Steve can’t stop thinking about everything— everyone— who has gone, and is gone for good.

The emotion that surges then is too pure to need a name. It fills him up, every cell of his body close to bursting, and it’s no surprise when he feels tears burning their way down his cheeks.

He can feel Danny eyeing himself discreetly. Waiting, no doubt, for him to wipe his face and shake himself, and carry on like the crying never happened. Like plenty of other people on the beach are doing, now.

But the thing is, he can’t. He can’t stop; he can’t even bother to hide it.

Danny works that out before too long.

There’s a gentle touch on his elbow; then Danny’s hooking his arm through Steve’s, guiding him wordlessly back to the car. Steve just lets himself be led.

Most of the others on the beach are leaving too, forming a small, untidy crowd; but Danny knows where he’s going, and they make it safely back to their parking spot. To the relative safety of Danny’s mom’s station wagon.

The instant that the door closes, sealing him safely into their own private world, Steve folds double, atop his knees.

And _breaks_.

The grief that spills now comes from somewhere deeper than he’s gone inside himself. Deeper than he thought he could go. Not grief for any one person, any one loss; just the sheer unadulterated sadness that’s become his background radiation. The metronome by which he times his life.

Wetness comes in floods down his cheeks; far beyond discreet teardrops, more like a downspout after a rainstorm. Saliva oozes, and creeps down his chin.

Outside the car there’s the sound of waves, of sparse traffic; inside there’s a keening, a noise of grief Steve’s never heard himself make before. At first it startles him. Before long, it’s the only reaction that makes sense.

He can’t go on hurting this much. He just can’t. There’s got to be a loophole, a clause to be exploited; he cannot wake up every day for the rest of his life to a grief this massive. To a heart that hurts this badly.

But there is no loophole.

There is no solution.

There’s nothing to do but fucking bear it.

To wake up to a world every day with no Mom, no Dad. No Joe, no Deb. No Freddie.

No Catherine.

Just: this.

Just a sick old sailor who’ll die a bachelor; nobody’s father and nobody’s son.

Danny’s hand is stroking his hair now. But even that— that thing that would normally tether him— doesn’t do much at all.

It’s all just an emptiness; and this time Steve loses to it.

*

“Steve. Stevie?” Danny’s hand is warm on his, rousing him to wakefulness. “Hey hey, it’s okay. It’s just me. We’re all checked in.”

He sniffles. Shakes his head. “Where’re’w?”

“’nother motel. North Cape May, not that that means much to ya.”

“Fell ‘sleep,” Steve slurs.

“Yeah, I know. You wore yourself out.” Steve’s eyes are closed again, but he tries to picture the fatherly concern on Danny’s face. “It’s okay, I gotcha. We just gotta get out of the car, walk up to the room. Okay?”

“‘kay.”

“No, leave your bag, babe, I’ll come back for ‘em.”

Steve cracks his eyes. It feels like he’s been drinking; it feels like he’s been drinking a hundred times more than the amount that made him sick the other day.

It’s all he can do to take Danny’s hand.

He lurches from the car. Danny already knows where they’re going. The smell of ocean and asphalt surrounds him, and he leans into his friend and lets himself be marched up a set of metal stairs.

Danny’s got the room key. With a gentle murmur, he opens the door.

No shower, no brushing of teeth. No evening piss. His bladder will wake him in a few hours, but that’s a then-problem.

Steve walks into the room, to the first bed. Kicks off his shoes, shucks off his pants, crawls under the covers. And sleeps.

*

He wakes slowly, not disoriented but— groggy. Heavy. He’s probably slept about twelve hours and it feels like he could still sleep twelve more. His hands aren’t shaking, but they feel weak.

He should get up; he should shower, brush his teeth, change his clothes. Should ready himself for the new day. He should do all he can to be a better companion to Danny; at the very minimum he should try not to cry (or throw up, or start a fight) today.

But he’s— not ready.

Still needs a minute.

So he closes his eyes, tries to steady his breathing.

Still he must make noise of some sort, because Danny shifts in his bed, and calls over quietly.

“Morning.”

“Morning.”

“How you feelin’?”

“Okay,” Steve croaks. And it’s not a _lie_. His eyes are sore and his head and stomach both ache a little, but the grief is— on hold. Not currently drowning him.

“Are you, uh. You up for stuff today, or you wanna—?”

 _Oh_.

Maybe he shouldn’t be so surprised, but he hadn’t thought that _no stuff today_ was an option.

“Can we— stay in?”

“Yeah, no problem.”

“Or did you have—?”

“No timetable,” Danny promises. His voice suddenly unmuffles, and Steve realizes that his friend had still been wrapped up in his blankets, too. That makes him feel a little less slothful. “You want some water, or something? For your head?”

“Nah. But— c’ld you, uh—?”

“Can I what?”

“If we’re sleeping in,” Steve tries again; God, why can’t he just spit it out? “Could you—?”

Danny gives a huff of understanding, and Steve relaxes, spared the indignity of finishing the sentence. A bed creaks, and covers rustle. Then his own mattress dips, as Danny crawls in and curls up beside him.

And suddenly it’s a struggle, to keep his eyes from closing. “You need—?” Steve begins, before he’s cut off by a massive yawn; he lifts the blankets a little, instead.

“Took mine with me,” Danny laughs. “Secret to successful bed sharing, man: separate covers.”

And, yup, when Steve forces his eyes to open briefly, he sees Danny, six inches away but cocooned in the other bed’s comforter. Which means that Steve does not have to share his.

Which is perfect, really. Staying wrapped up in his own blankets feels a lot less vulnerable; in the realest of senses, he’s been allowed to keep his armor. But Danny’s still close. Close enough that Steve can feel his warmth, and sense his smallest movements; close enough that Steve is safely within the protective Danny-bubble.

Safe, on all fronts.

He goes back to sleep. 

*

He wakes to the sound of Danny’s voice. His tone is neutral, unperturbed; still Steve’s instincts to have _all_ the information take over. He begins to struggle upright.

The Danny’s hand finds his shoulder, and squeezes gently. “Hey, nothing’s wrong. Go back to sleep.”

“Who—?”

“Front desk. I’m just changing our check out to tomorrow. Everything’s fine, Steve, I mean it.”

And this is Danny. Danny’s never led him wrong before.

Steve goes back to sleep.

*

He wakes to a knock at the door, and the feeling of Danny slipping from the bed; he opens his eyes in time to watch Danny accept a massive brown bag and tip its deliverer.

Steve grunts. He figures the meaning should be obvious.

“Heyo, van Winkle. Got us room service for lunch.”

“‘n a motel?”

“Guess they do a thing with the diner across the way,” Danny replies, and plops the bag at the foot of Steve’s bed. “Okay. Cheeseburgers. Cheesecakes. Wings to share.”

Steve hauls himself upright, rubbing crusties from his eyes. “’m gonna get fat.”

“I’ll still be your friend.”

“Didn’t think you wouldn’t be,” Steve grumbles. “Just don’t wanna hafta buy all new pants.”

Danny smirks, as he sets the food out. Steve sets about extricating himself from the covers— and laughs as he does so. He’s still wrapped in his own blankets. But he realizes now that he’d wormed his way under Danny’s too, forcing the guy to share, and if that doesn’t just say everything…

He gets free, after an extra second of struggle. He washes up in the bathroom, then returns— to find Danny pulling lettuce off his cheeseburger, sitting back on his original bed.

Steve doesn’t mean to scowl. Or grunt, or whatever he does to draw Danny’s attention; but apparently he does. Danny looks up, and rolls his eyes.

“What? I’ll come back when we’re done eating! I like my eating space.”

“I don’t care where you eat.”

“Oh my God, are you _sulking_?” Danny cackles. “Steve. Babe. Grace taught me a new phrase, and I’m gonna use it on you, okay? You’re doin’ the _most_ right now.”

Despite his best intentions, Steve cracks a smile. “I’m doing the most?”

“You are. I’m not one hundred percent sure that I’m using it right, but it feels right.”

And okay, maybe he’d been sulking a little, but he can’t keep it up any longer. Steve opens the curtains. Then he plops into bed, wraps up in every available blanket (including the one Danny left), and attacks his cheeseburger with gusto.

They have lunch in comfortable silence. Steve steals glances over at Danny’s takeout box; he’s still not eating as much as usual, but all told he manages most of his burger and a few of his fries. He tosses the leftovers, but stows his cheesecake in the mini-fridge for later. Then he smiles at Steve, whose takeout box is empty and whose cheesecake is already half-gone.

“Is it good?”

“It’s actually _really_ good, man.”

“You get it now, why I miss the food? Everywhere says they’ve got _New York_ cheesecake. Bunch of frauds.”

“This isn’t New York,” Steve points out, around another mouthful.

“You’re right, but you’re wrong,” Danny replies, vaguely; but he lets Steve finish dessert in peace.

Steve’s cleaned up before long. He settles back on his bed and waits to see if Danny will remember to return, now that they’re done eating. He doesn’t, at first. But what he does do is scan Steve head to toe with a gently probing look.

Steve takes account of what Danny will find. Bedhead, no doubt, and a few days of stubble; below the waist, just boxers, and above, Danny’s own sweatshirt, still being worn over Steve’s day-old t-shirt.

“So.”

“So?”

“Y’know. How are you?”

Steve rubs his forehead, scratches a suddenly-itchy ear. “I’m better but not— better? If that’s a valid answer?”

“It’s a valid answer. If it’s the truth, it’s a valid answer.”

“Then there you go.”

“Okay.” Danny smiles, looking helpless. “So. We don’t gotta talk, if you’d rather not, but, we could talk. If you wanted.”

Steve doesn’t reply.

“Not for nothin’ but I— I’ve never seen you like that before, Steve. I mean, the flag thing, that always chokes me up pretty good, but I didn’t think—” He winces. “I’m sorry, man. If it was a bad idea.”

Steve shrugs. Forces a smile that feels like an admission of guilt. “It wasn’t one specific thing,” he gets out, after a moment spent rallying himself to speech.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Last night, I just— I think it hit me,” Steve murmurs. “That no matter how much good stuff happens. Or how much I have to look forward to, I’ll never, uh. I’ll never get over the bad stuff. Not really. And I guess that shouldn’t be a surprise. I mean, I guess, that’s grief, y’know? But I just— I just wanna feel—”

“Better?”

“Yeah,” Steve huffs, and lets himself fold forward. Then there’s a dip in the bed, and the warmth of Danny pulling him close without making him straighten.

“I think I’m just broken, Danny,” Steve whispers. “I think I’m just not comin’ back from this.”

“I think you’ve felt that way before. And you’ve always made it back, in the end.”

“Maybe.” He uncurls a little, but only enough to rest his head on Danny’s shoulder. “I dunno. It feels different this time. It feels worse.”

Roughened fingers brush his hair, then Danny goes still; for a moment they just sit together, Danny’s arm around Steve’s back, Steve’s weight against Danny’s chest. The AC hums in the background.

And it isn’t quite the grief that catches him this time; it’s the overwhelming truth that he does not know what to do. He does not know how to feel better.

Fuck.

Steve pulls away, presses both hands to his eyes and scrubs roughly at the wetness he finds there. “’m sorry.”

“Why’re you sorry? Hey, some days, you gotta cry. Huh?” Danny laughs softly. “Some days you gotta cry two days in a row.”

“No, ‘cause— it’s not _doing_ anything. It’s not getting me anywhere. And, yesterday, man, I just felt so— I felt so crappy, I couldn’t stop it. But now, it’s— now I’m feeling crappy _about_ feeling crappy, and that’s— that’s some other kind of pathetic. Y’know?”

“I hear you.” Danny jostles him, lightly.

“I dunno. That’s all I’ve got.”

“That was good. That was a lot of words for you.”

“Okay, but, it still feels like I didn’t really _say_ anything.”

“You know some people think that talking is actually a valid way of working things out. You talk enough and eventually it’ll start making sense.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah. So they say.”

Steve sniffles, then has to wipe his nose anyway. “There’s just too much in my head right now, Danny.”

“I know. I know.”

“I gotta— I gotta snap out of it.”

“Okay. Hey.” And when Steve raises his head, Danny thumbs away his tears. “You tell me, don’t let you wallow, I won’t let you wallow. Let’s go for a walk. Okay? C’mon,” he adds, when Steve hesitates. “You don’t do too good with no sunlight. Just fifteen minutes.”

Steve lets himself be hauled to his feet.

In the end they walk a lot longer than fifteen minutes; the weather’s great again, and what’s more, Steve feels better just being in motion. Danny was right. He needs sunlight, and fresh air; he needs the outdoors, be it tropical or otherwise.

They walk without direction. They walk until they happen to find the local airport— and happen to find a brewery just across the road. Then they grab some cans and sit outside, watching the planes. Afterwards, relaxed and ever-so-slightly buzzed, Steve leads them in a direction perpendicular from where they came, thinking to form an eventual circle.

And as they wander, he just starts talking. It’s easier, somehow. Like when he gets out all the bad stuff, it lingers in the air, but doesn’t drift as a real cloud might. It stays where it’s put, by the side of an anonymous road. And Steve himself can just keep on walking, and leave it behind.

“One thing that I keep coming back to,” he muses, “is how much I’ve been missing Deb.”

They’re ambling along some no-shoulder road, moving opposite to traffic so they know when to step off the side. “She loved you a lot,” Danny replies.

“I swear to God, I think— I think you two are the only people who ever took care of me without wantin’ something back from me, y’know? You two are the only people who jus’— who just wanted me to be okay.”

Danny nods, a silent sounding board.

“But it’s not just that. She always had a way of makin’ stuff make sense. And I don’t— man, I don’t know where I’m going from here. I really don’t. And please believe me when I tell you that you’re amazing. And ten years ago I musta sold my soul or somethin’, to end up with a friend like you. But, y’know. You’re my age. And you’re not uninvested. And I wish I had— y’know. An aunt. Or someone like that. Who could just— tell me what to do.” He sighs, and admits aloud what he’s been thinking for months now: “this is the first time in my life I haven’t had somebody tellin’ me what to do.”

“Can I flip this script a little?” Danny poses, after a moment.

“Please.”

“I get it. And I’m not staying that wouldn’t be nice. But I think— from where I’m standing, and from what I’ve— y’know. What I’ve been through. You want somebody tellin’ you what to do just means, you want someone controlling the outcome. And you want that because you wanna know that everything’ll turn out okay. So— no. I can’t tell you what to do, Steve. But I can tell you— everything will be okay.”

“You can’t tell me that, man,” Steve whispers. “Two months ago, you almost died. Anybody can— anybody can be lost. At any moment. You can’t tell me it’s gonna be okay.”

Danny snorts. “Well, fuck it. I guess by that logic, I can’t even tell you I’ll always be there for you. You really chip away at the platitudes, babe.”

They walk a little farther, until that set of words has been left behind.

“Listen, man,” Danny opens. “We don’t talk about— God and stuff all too much, do we?”

“No.”

“You ever wonder why?”

“It’s private.” Steve shakes his head. “Most private thing there is.”

“We tell each other private stuff. I mean it, we do! You’re the only one who knows, man, so many things, about me. And fuckin’ frankly, I think you share more than you think you do. I mean, I don’t know who’ve I’ve had more toilet-centric discussions with, you or my eight-year-old.”

They both manage a quiet laugh, before sobering again.

“We don’t talk about God,” Danny sighs, “because— you’re in a much better place with that. And I don’t wanna drag you down.”

“What d’you mean?”

“You know that thing? _No atheists in foxholes_? Man, when I’m— when I’m in it, when I’m really deep in it— I think that’s when I believe in God the least. I mean, fuck me, right? But I think you believe more than you maybe let on. Or— more than you have the chance to talk about it.”

“Yeah,” Steve murmurs. “I do.”

“You said you prayed. When I was in surgery. When you really need faith, you’ve got it. So can you spare— just a fraction of that faith, for the day-to-day? Not for— not for some white-beard guy lookin’ down from the clouds. Can you spare just enough faith to believe that it might, maybe, be okay in the end? Or at least, can you try?”

Last night the marble had lain, forgotten, in the pocket in the heap that was his pants. It had stayed there all morning. But he’d slipped it into today’s pocket before leaving; he thumbs it now, willing it to tether him.

“I just don’t see how it can be,” Steve whispers.

“Because _you have people_. On your side. Listen, you say people want things from you. And it sounds like you think that— undoes them caring about you. But that’s how people work! We all want something from each other. I want something from you. I want you to take your ass back to Hawaii and be my, my— my guy again. I wanna watch sunsets on our chairs until the day I’m too blind to see ‘em or too senile to care. I want something from you. Doesn’t mean I don’t want you to be happy. And I think, if you get down to it, everybody's wanted that. Your dad, even your mom—”

“My mom didn’t want me to be happy, Danny. She wanted me to forgive her. That’s a big fucking difference. And my dad? My dad didn’t know what happy _meant_.”

“Okay,” Danny relents, quietly. “Flip again. Your parents are gone. And that hurts. And it sucks. But it also means, you don’t live for them anymore. They’re not your people, anymore. But I _am_. We _are_.”

They’re on the edge of a town, now. Steve hangs back, fully aware of the tears on his cheeks and maybe not ready to display them to an assortment of random New Jersians. Just one New Jersian.

“I don’t wanna leave you,” Steve whispers, “or the team. It took me so goddamn long to find my people, how could I wanna leave? But it’s like— how can I stay? How much longer can I keep it up?”

He’s sobbing a little now; and he startles when he realizes. Danny realizes too.

“Okay,” he soothes, stepping closer. “That’s my fault, man. We went to far. Bring it back. Come back, Steve.”

It’s a struggle. But Steve fights. What can he see? Trees, road, Danny. A frog in the underbrush. What can he hear? Cars, wind, Danny breathing.

He feels the marble in his pocket. He feels the breeze, drying his tears.

“We’re done for now,” Danny says, calmly. “Come back.”

“I am,” Steve chokes. “I am.”

And it takes a while; but he does.

“You good for now?” Danny asks, a few minutes later.

“Yeah.”

“Really really?”

“Yeah,” Steve huffs, scrubbing at his face.

Danny sighs, looks him up and down again. “You wanna hold hands?”

Steve snorts. “No.”

“You wanna stop for ice cream?”

“Dude, are you _hungry_?”

“I’m not. I’m not even a little hungry, actually, I don’t think I’ll even want dinner. But I thought we were gonna make you fat. I thought we’d agreed on that plan.”

“Actually, is— is it a normal person coping mechanism, if I jus’ get a cone? Like a small one?”

Danny grins.

*

In the end Steve knows that sweets can’t become his crutch. Nothing should actually be his crutch. A person in perfect health doesn’t need a crutch. But, as he slowly works through his twirled soft serve, it occurs to him that, yeah. It’s actually making him feel a lot, lot better.

They’d wandered pretty far. After the ice cream shop, when they decide to head back, they’re almost an hour away. But it’s all right. They take it slow, and, as decided, keep the conversation light. And eventually they reach the motel.

He’s only been up for a few hours now; but the moment they’re through the door, Steve eyes his freshly-made bed with real yearning. Today’s a wash. Why not give into it fully?

“Hey, c’mere,” Danny calls, quietly. “Before you lie down. C’mere.”

“Huh?”

“Stand-up hug. You’re right: they’re better.”

Steve huffs softly, remembering the moment Danny’s referring to. They’d been on the beach, saying goodbye.

Steve’s needed about a thousand hugs since then, and he gets the sense that Danny has, too.

“I didn’t figure you wanted to do this by the side of the road,” Danny teases. “But you had a face on.”

“I had a face on?”

“You get a face. Don’t ask me how I know. C’mere.”

The reluctance is just a formality; when Danny gestures again, Steve steps right into his arms. And _sinks_.

They’d probably hugged that first night, but he can’t remember. If they had, it hadn’t been like this. Nope, this is the first real Danny-hug— the first real hug, full-stop— that he’s gotten in over two months now, and it’s _wonderful_. It’s _everything_.

For what feels like the hundredth time in the past 24 hours, tears fill Steve’s eyes.

“Hey.” Danny’s voice comes just at his ear. “I’m not trying to reopen anything. You’re too tired, right now, and that’s okay. But listen to me, ‘cause I got one more thing to say. Listen to me.”

Steve nods; forces his eyes to stay open.

“I know, that if you move to California, we will still be us. I know we’ll do a better job than I did, when I moved. Both of us. Honestly, honestly, honestly. What you and I have, is not going anywhere.”

More nodding. The tears have spilled.

“Everything’s gonna be okay, babe,” Danny soothes. “And maybe you’re too hurt, or too scared, to believe me yet. But _it_ _is going to be okay_.”

He’s so choked up it’s hard to even whisper now. But he manages. “Okay.”

“Hey, you cryin’ again?”

“Maybe.”

“You’ll give Lou a run for his money.” Danny teases, and hugs him closer; Steve shuts his eyes and lets the tears plop thickly onto Danny’s shirt. “That’s okay. Let it out, huh? You’ll feel better when you’re done.”

Finally held in familiar arms, Steve thinks he’ll cry forever. He doesn’t. He runs out of energy after just a minute of stifled sobs; still he clings a while longer, savoring the contact.

“You’re okay,” Danny murmurs, at some point. “You’re okay, hey. I love you.”

“Love you,” Steve whispers, glad he didn’t have to say it first.

Another few seconds pass; then Danny claps him warmly on the back. “Okay. You wanna get ready for bed? I know it’s _stupid_ early, but we could maybe watch a movie.”

Steve gets the idea that this isn’t Danny’s first time, soothing the weepies with TV time and pajamas; and for good reason. That sounds amazing. “Yeah,” he mumbles, nodding clumsily. He pulls away, but Danny keeps a hand on his arm until he’s finally finished drying his face on his collar.

“There you go,” Danny hums. “There you are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this ended up becoming four chapters. Oops.
> 
> I hope this chapter read okay. I rewrote certain parts of it so many times, just trying to get Steve's perspective right, that I'm worried I broke up the flow. He just has so much in his head, and he's trying to get it all out-- and I'm trying to capture it-- in any case, I hope it still read well :)
> 
> Oops again... almost forgot Jersey notes... everything about Sunset beach is true. There's a little information on the official website, if you're interested. I haven't been since I was a kid but I still remember the flag ceremony being super powerful. Cape May does indeed have a little airport, and Cape May Brewing Co. is literally next door. I don't drink beer so it's not a place I really go, but some friends dragged me one time and if you're a beer drinker it looks lovely. And I think that's all the real places for this chapter :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: panic attack

Steve wakes more slowly than usual the next morning, but as soon as he’s aware of his surroundings, the first thing he does is smile. At some point during the night, he’d latched, like, _entirely_ , onto Danny. And he’s holding him now, like a 5’5” stuffed animal, his head on Danny’s shoulder and his arm around Danny’s waist.

They’d fallen asleep watching— something. Probably. He remembers Danny commenting on the earlier scenes of the movie, though he can’t recall the movie itself; he remembers Danny yawning and finally lying down, instead of propping up on pillows.

He remembers Danny reassuring him as he cautiously huddled closer and closer.

After that he can’t remember anything else.

Seemingly he’s once again slept ten or twelve hours, but he can’t feel bad about it. He’s tired. He’s been tired since he was sixteen.

Danny, it seems, hasn’t slept in as late, though. Once Steve comes to full consciousness, he realizes that his friend’s eyes are open, albeit blank.

“Hey,” Steve whispers.

“Hey.”

“Coulda pushed me off.”

“’s fine.”

“You look bored,” Steve notes, rolling onto his back. “Couldn’t reach your phone to dick around?”

“Eh. Was driftin’ in an’ out,” Danny mutters. “How you doin’, babe?”

“Better,” Steve replies, meaning it. Yesterday he’d cried what felt like a decade’s worth of tears; today he feels their absence, like a lightness somewhere between his stomach and his chest. Nothing’s been solved. But his problems do feel smaller, somehow.

“Good. Good.”

“How ‘bout you?” Steve asks. “How you doin’ over there?” Because it’s slowly occurring to him that Danny looks not-quite-okay. Which, honestly, makes sense. He’d just spent a solid 36 hours actively caregiving— even in his sleep— and how could that not wear on him a little?

“I’m good. Why you worried ‘bout me?”

“I dunno, you look kinda tired.”

Danny smiles gently, in what seems to be acknowledgment. “So, legitimately unrelated to your bed-hogging, I might not’ve sleep so good last night.”

“You coulda pushed me off—”

“Did you hear me? Do you listen when I speak? I just don’t always sleep good. That’s always been a thing for me.”

Steve’s not entirely convinced; but he leaves it, for now. He himself isn’t doing _great_ , but he’s doing fine. At least it feels like he could probably spend a few minutes alone without freaking out or breaking down (and to be honest, that was _not_ the case yesterday). So he goes and washes up, then heads back to Danny’s side.

“You wanna hit the shower, I could go out for coffee and bagels.”

Out of the blankets now, Danny moans and stretches thoroughly.

“That a yes?”

“Bacon, egg, and cheese, on an everything,” Danny mumbles. “Tell ‘em you want the bacon extra crispy. An’ you know my coffee order.”

“I know your coffee order.”

“Make it a large.”

“Large coffee.”

“ _Extra_ crispy bacon.”

“Uncooked, floppy-ass bacon,” Steve affirms, as he grabs his wallet and heads outside.

Half an hour later he’s back, with two identical sandwiches and two very different coffee orders. And some cookies, just because. Danny’s hair is wet and his clothes have been changed, but he’s back under the covers, only sitting up as Steve opens the door.

“Smells amazing,” he groans, rubbing his eyes. He’s kept the blankets up to his waist, obviously claiming that bed as his own; but he scoffs as Steve heads for the other.

“Eating space?” Steve asks.

“’s okay. C’mere.”

Steve complies, happily; they turn on some mindless talk show and eat bagels and cookies (and the cheesecake Danny never got to yesterday). Steve sneaks his legs under Danny’s blanket. And when the food is gone they sit shoulder-to-shoulder and finish their coffee, and listen to fashion advice for the summer.

“Yo, I can’t,” Danny groans, eventually, grubbing around in the blankets.

“You can’t pull off those colors?”

“Can’t watch this anymore.” He’s found the remote, and clicks the TV off with a snort.

To Steve this is the cue to say what needs saying.

“Hey, Danny.”

“Mm?”

“I know I don’t need to say thank you for yesterday,” Steve begins, “but thank you for yesterday. Thank you for this whole trip but especially thank you for yesterday.”

He glances over and, for a moment, catches Danny’s eyes. “You’re welcome,” Danny says, with utter, perfect sincerity. Then he yawns.

Then he shakes his head, with a quiet huff.

“I guess, if we’re gonna be— emotionally open and—honest an’ stuff— I had some bad dreams last night. Some pretty bad, y’know, nightmares.”

“Shoulda woken me up.”

Danny shrugs, looking nothing so much as embarrassed. “You were already— y’know. So. It was okay.”

Steve can’t help but smile, and not just at the rare sight of a bashful Danny Williams. His friend took comfort from him, even while he was asleep. Danny woke up from a bad dream and managed to feel a little bit better because Steve was already there, already holding him.

He’s used to making others feel safe. But usually it involves a gun, or a stratagem, or at least a stoically compassionate presence. He made Danny feel safe with unconscious cuddles. Maybe some light snoring. He made Danny feel safe by sheer proximity.

How could he not want to smile about that?

But the smile doesn’t last long.

“We’re comin’ back around,” Danny muses, “to where I used to do family vacation as a kid.”

Steve lets himself sigh. He knows— he’s never forgotten— that Danny, as a _child_ , watched his best friend drown. That that was his own reason, for growing up too fast.

But somehow he hadn’t put two and two together; hadn’t arrived at the logical conclusion that this trip would actually bring them to where it took place.

“Don’t with the face, okay. I’m fine. It was a long time ago.”

“I thought we were being open and honest.”

Danny laughs, but says nothing.

“Yo, we don’t have to go anywhere you’re not up for, man. Seriously.”

“No, we. We might as well. I haven’t been to Wildwood since. It’s been thirty years. I should”— he gestures, a tight, side-to-side motion— “rip that Band-Aid off eventually.”

“Yeah.”

“But I gotta tell you, when you said you weren’t up for it yesterday— shit, I was all-too-happy to push it off a day. Day’s here now.”

“Yeah,” Steve murmurs; then, for lack of anything better say, adds, “I’m with you, man.”

“I know. I’m— I’m. I’m.” Danny snorts, takes a moment to re-focus. “I’m beyond grateful, Steve.”

Steve just slings an arm around Danny’s shoulder and squeezes; much as he’s seen it over the years, naked sincerity from his friend still tends to render him more or less speechless.

It’s Danny who shakes off the haze, a minute later. “Okay. You wanna shower?”

“We got time?”

“We got time. And then we’ll checkout and we’ll go, and I’ll face my childhood trauma, and then we’ll go to Sea Shell for ice cream. Sound good?”

“Sounds good,” Steve echoes; what else is there to say?

*

It’s not a long drive to Wildwood, but they cross a bridge to get there, like they had the other night to go to Sunset beach.

“Incidentally,” Danny notes, “these are the islands. Hawaii’s not the only state with islands.”

“Florida Keys,” Steve replies, thoughtfully. This earns him a glare.

They find parking easily. The way Danny tells it, weekdays won’t be too bad until school’s out; then the whole place will be packed. For now, Steve appreciates the lack of crowds. It’s maybe not as warm as he’d like, so close to the water, but it’s certainly an advantage not to have swarms of people around them. Especially as Danny grows more and more anxious by the minute.

They haven’t even made it to the beach yet, only down a few blocks of boardwalk, when Danny starts panting like he’s just run ten miles. Steve shepherds him to a bench. To him, to anyone else, this would be a peaceful moment: the sound of waves and seagulls, the reverb of footsteps down the sturdy wooden boards. To Danny it’s clearly nothing less than agony.

“You don’t have to do this, Danny.”

“No, I,” Danny rasps, “I can.”

“I know you _can_. But you don’t have to.”

Danny just brushes him off, leads them further down the boardwalk. Their last beach didn’t have one, and for a moment Steve selfishly mourns for what this moment could have been. He wants to know Danny’s favorite local pizza place. He wants to ride the bright yellow tram car and play some arcade games and maybe even mini-golf.

He banishes the thought. He’s had two months to heal himself; this week is for healing their friendship. That could never just be junk food and scenic drives. It could never just be Steve crying on Danny’s shoulder.

Danny veers. Leads them down some steps, off the boardwalk, and starts heading for the surf. The expanse of sand is much wider than Steve’s used to. So far from the water, it’s soft and unsteady; he takes off his slippers (“ _they’re_ flip-flops _here, Steven”_ ) and carries them in one hand.

Danny presses onwards. The beach itself is emptier than the boards; just joggers and dogwalkers, and only a few of each. It’s too chilly for swimming.

And yet Danny has sweated through his t-shirt.

They stop short, just as the sand starts to harden; Danny stands, nearly gasping, staring out at the waves.

It occurs to Steve that he can’t quite catch his breath either.

“Take it slow, brah,” he murmurs, touching Danny on the arm. “I’m here. I’m with you.”

Danny doesn’t respond. Just keeps on staring; beginning to shake now.

Then his fingers are scrabbling, clumsily, at the sleeve of Steve’s sweatshirt.

“All right,” Steve murmurs, helping him turn away. “I gotcha man, we’re gonna head out.”

“Gotta leave.”

“I know. I’ve got you. Just come with me.”

“I gotta leave, man,” Danny croaks.

“We’re leaving. We’re leaving, Danno.”

But not fast enough, apparently. Danny breaks into a sudden sprint.

He doesn’t get far. He hits soft sand— still in flip-flops, on trembling legs— and goes down, crashing to his knees. Steve’s only an instant behind him.

“Okay,” he murmurs, kneeling too. “It’s okay. I’m gonna help, you gotta let me, okay? Gimme your hands.”

Danny nods, and with Steve’s help he lurches to his feet. Steve hooks his arm through Danny’s and guides him back to the boardwalk, taking real weight as they stagger over the soft earth.

They get to the steps.

Then up the steps.

Then down the boardwalk.

Then back to the car.

Steve thinks about stopping where they are, about a hundred times; but uncrowded doesn’t mean empty, and Danny won’t want to do this in front of strangers.

Whatever _this_ is going to be.

At the car, Danny fumbles in his pocket; finds the keys, pops the back, and all but collapses onto the bed of the station wagon’s trunk. Head between his knees, he wheezes for air. Steve perches beside him, feeling the tires compress to take the added weight.

“Hey, hey, follow my breathing. Follow my breathing,” Steve coaxes; and he can’t resist getting a little closer, but he doesn’t touch. “Follow my breathing. Listen to me. In, two, three, four; hold, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four; hold, two, three, four. You’re doin’ it—”

Steve has no idea how long they continue; only knows that he’s a little lightheaded, from the effort of narration, by the time he feels comfortable stopping. Danny, bobbing in place now, follows a few more rounds. Then he breaks the pattern with a massive, shuddering breath, and cautiously raises his head.

“What can I get you?” Steve asks, keeping his voice light.

“G’tt’ drink s’me water,” Danny grunts: the first he’s spoken in probably half an hour. Steve’s got a water bottle up front, so he goes and gets it.

The first sip is tentative, but then Danny chugs the rest; Steve wrinkles his nose and waits for Danny’s stomach to reject the sudden influx. It doesn’t. All that happens is that Danny sighs again, still brokenly, and presses the car keys into Steve’s hand.

“Gemme outta here,” he mutters, eyes to the blacktop.

Steve doesn’t stop to use the GPS; he feels bad enough as it is, that he has to take twenty seconds to adjust the seat and mirrors. But then he just goes. Heads away from the water, because that seems like a good bet; across the bridge he sees a sign for the Parkway, which sounds promising. He gets on, heads north.

In the passenger seat, Danny doesn’t look much better; but he does sound it. His breathing is slower, and mostly even. Both arms are tucked around his belly and he’s staring out the window, and it takes Steve right back, to one of the first things he ever really learned about his partner.

Danny loves car rides. He loves driving, but— as vehemently as he’ll deny it— he honestly loves being driven, too.

So for a little while, Steve just drives.

*

He exits eventually, with no real rationale; picks the first motel they come across, and checks them in. Danny’s got some color back by now. He smiles weakly when Steve returns to the car, then, when they’ve driven over to their door, he carries his own bag inside.

Steve expects him to sleep. It’s what he’d do— what he had done, stumbling into a motel after his own breakdown only a few days ago— so it confuses him a little when Danny strips off his shirt and turns on the water in the bathroom.

“Danny, if you need some privacy, man—”

“Not for privacy,” Danny grunts, tapping his bare chest. “It helps with the palpitations.” He’s going through his bag now, digging for a clean shirt.

They’ll really need to do laundry, Steve thinks absently, if they stay on the road much longer.

But Danny finds a shirt that’s apparently up to standards; then he disappears into the bathroom, and stays in there for a long, long time.

*

Steve has settled onto one of the beds; he pats the mattress beside him when Danny finally emerges. Danny sinks onto the other one.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Danny mutters. “It’s not you. It’s just, like, a sensory thing. It’s all just a lot right now, y’know?”

Steve does, of course. He’s been there too; just somehow his upsets along this trip have all been the clingy kind of upset, and not this other kind. But fuck, of course he’s needed space at times. It’s sort of been a theme, in fact.

“I _actually_ won’t be offended, if you need the room for a few hours,” Steve tells him. “Seriously. Just say the word.”

“Nah. It’s easin’ up. Just needa lie down for a while, okay?”

“You want the TV on?”

“No TV. AC, fan on high, please.”

Steve slides from the bed to do as he’s told, and when he looks back, Danny’s under the blankets, so completely that he’s out of sight.

*

Steve thinks about sleeping, but in the end, he doesn’t. Danny, surprisingly, hadn’t wanted the TV on; and Steve doesn’t feel like being on his phone, or digging in his bag for a book. So he does what he doesn’t do often: just lies down and rests.

A while later, he’s roused by a groan; but it’s loud, theatrical, so it makes him smile. That’s a very Danny-esque type of groan. His partner sounds like himself, like he hasn’t sounded for hours.

“How you holdin’ up, man?” he calls, opening his eyes to see Danny dragging himself upright.

“Gah,” Danny scoffs, pressing both hands to his face. “I feel like shit.”

“Yeah?”

“I get nauseous, after ‘em. Who gets nauseous _afterwards_?”

“You want anything for it?”

“Nah. It’ll pass.” Danny sighs. “Just hadda complain. Wh’fucking time is it?”

Steve glances at the alarm clock. “Quarter to five.”

“How much you hadda pay, for early check-in?”

“Weekday in the off-season? I just asked, bro.”

“Listen to you, _off-season_. Make up a sexy story for me, next time. Make it more interesting, like you seduced the concierge.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, thanks, in any case. Seriously.” Danny glances over, fondness in his tired eyes. “Thank you.”

Steve just smiles.

“Where are we anyway?” Danny asks, cracking various joints now.

“Um. Marmora?” Steve shrugs. “I just jumped on the Parkway and headed north.”

“Marmora—? Where fuck is Marmora?”

“Why’re you asking me? This is your show.”

“Doesn’t fucking mean I know where Mar— oh.” Danny grins, as he reaches over and snags a brochure from the nightstand. “I know where we are. You found Ocean City, man. You shoulda just said so.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“Very good thing. Very good thing. You like fudge, right?”

“Yeah?”

“We are ten minutes plus parking away from the best fudge you’ve ever eaten.”

“All right, nice. First thing tomorrow—”

“Nah,” Danny interrupts. “Let’s go now.”

“Listen, man, I am the last person who’ll judge if you need to stay in tonight—”

“I don’t need to stay in tonight.” Danny speaks like he’s explaining something to Charlie, though Steve doesn’t know which one of them would be Charlie in this scenario. “I think I need to _not_ stay in tonight.”

So not-too-much later they’re heading out again, going over another bridge, hunting down another parking spot. Things are a little livelier here. Whether that’s because it’s evening, or because this beach is more popular, Steve’s not sure. He doesn’t know enough to tell the two boardwalks apart.

To Danny, though, the difference is obvious; he’s infinitely more relaxed, almost himself again, as they stroll down the boards, walking close.

The air smells like ocean and funnel cake. Every other kid that passes by seems to have the same giant pinwheel, a brightly colored thing composed of seven smaller pinwheels. There’s more dogs, bicyclists, bands of teenagers.

Danny leads him first to the promised fudge shop; at the back of the store, a glass wall allows onlookers to view the candymakers at work. There’s more taffy being made than fudge. Danny laughs when Steve notes this, and in the end they buy a pound of each.

Back outside, on a bench, Steve tries one of every taffy flavor. Danny picks at the fudge and carries on a mostly one-sided conversation, Steve too busy chewing to reply. When he’s tried all the taffy, Danny makes him try all the fudge. When he’s tried all the fudge, his teeth ache from too much sugar; Danny laughs at him, and ducks into a store to buy him a bottle of water.

After this they wander a while. Beachy, touristy culture isn’t exactly new to Steve, but small differences draw his interest, and the whole idea of it seems much more endearing now that he’s the tourist. There are cages full of painted hermit crabs. There are shops selling water ice— which is not, Danny emphasizes, anything like shave ice. Every other store sells the exact same t-shirts. Many of them just bear the city’s name, but there’s the typical array of novelty screenprints as well.

Steve, who’d forgotten a sweatshirt for this outing, gives in and buys one. It’s a navy hoodie that says _Ocean City New Jersey_ with a silhouette of the state underneath; Danny hoots out loud and sends a picture of Steve wearing it to everyone they know.

Steve’s happy that Danny’s happy. He’s also happy to be wearing long sleeves again, especially as Danny makes him try water ice.

They’re nearly to the end of the boards now. Steve’s about to suggest that they head back and hit up some mini-golf when Danny click his tongue and glances over.

“You wanna go on the, uh, on the sand?”

Danny and sand have not been a good mix, today. “Only if you do,” Steve replies, trying to sound light.

“Actually I do. If you don’t mind.”

“Don’t mind. But—”

“ _Steve_.” Danny bops him on the shoulder. “I’m good, man. Strict quota: one panic attack per road trip.”

Still possible to be miserable without having an actual panic attack, Steve thinks, but doesn’t say. Instead he follows Danny down to the beach. It’s a much shorter distance here, between the boardwalk and the water, and they’re on firm sand in under a minute. Danny keeps going, right to the edge.

Steve takes his flip-flops off and walks with his feet in the ocean; Danny leaves his on, and does his best to stay on the sand. They walk for a while, until the sounds of the boardwalk lesson. And then, unprompted, Danny starts to talk.

“I used to think about Billy every day,” he muses. “I dunno when I stopped. Now, some days I feel like, there’s so much on my plate, I don’t even think about _Matty_.”

Steve nods; glances over, though Danny isn’t looking. “I feel like, for me, I almost look forward to getting to that point. But then I feel guilty, once I realize that I have.”

“Yeah.”

“But then, you don’t want remembering them to feel like a punishment, right?”

“That’s the dream, huh,” Danny scoffs. “Think about ‘em and be happier than you are sad. How long does that take?”

“I don’t think it’s time.” Steve sighs. “I think it’s gotta be everything else. I mean. I think about Deb, I can be happy, for the most part. I think about my father— that’s been almost ten years— and it’s. It’s still definitely more sad than happy.”

The water surges, just a little, but enough to catch Danny’s feet. He grumbles. Heads away, to the fully dry sand, and settles down with his knees pulled up towards his chest. Steve sits beside him.

There’s nobody else around, by now. Nothing on their radar but sand and ocean, and the occasional gull passing by overhead. The sun is low, behind their heads; their shadows stretch down towards the water.

“Been tryin’,” Danny murmurs, “to do the happy thing. But man, we were kids. Half the stuff we did together I don’t even remember, just ‘cause, it was ages ago, y’know? It’s all just this, like, this fucking montage of riding bikes and goin’ over each other’s place for dinner.

“But from that vacation, I have this one clear, clear picture of us. I was a jerk, y’know, kept tryin’ to ditch my brother, but Billy loved him. He loved Matty. One day we buried him in the sand. Built him a mermaid body. Found some seaweed and made it like he had mermaid hair. He thought it was the coolest thing, that the big kids were playing with him, y’know?”

Danny’s voice cracks, for the first time, and he swallows.

“I’m not sure, but I think— I think that was the day before he died. Some of his last hours on this fucking planet and he and I buried my kid brother in the sand and gave him tennis balls for tits. Both of ‘em, they couldn’t stop laughing. And now they’re both gone.”

Steve pulls Danny closer, and hugs him while he weeps; he rocks him, more by instinct than conscious thought, and presses a kiss to his bristly hair.

“Fuck,” Danny’s voice is like glue. “I can’t, I can’t. _I can’t_.”

“You’re okay,” Steve murmurs, hugging tighter. Danny squirms and shifts, until his head is resting in the cradle of Steve’s shoulder, his weight more or less in Steve’s lap. He shakes, belly hitching with sobs.

“I got you, Danny,” Steve vows; still rocking, still kissing. “I’ve got you. I do.”

Danny clings; Steve’s arm is across his chest and he just hangs onto it, so hard that he’ll leave nail-marks, even through the sleeve. He weeps aloud. Grief without restraint pours from him, painful, strident, and the utter honesty of it does strange things to Steve’s heart.

They’re only a few months away from ten years of friendship. And maybe Steve’s just thoughtless, or maybe there’s something deeper at play, but he has never— well.

Never actually believed that Danny needs him as much as he needs Danny.

That’s never seemed possible.

He needs Danny more than words can say.

So, if Danny needs him just as much— if Danny _actually somehow_ needs Steve as much as Steve needs Danny—

Well.

Well, then.

*

The wind picks up; the sun sinks lower. Steve has goosebumps by the time Danny slumps away from him, scrubbing clumsily at his face.

“Mm.” He looks Steve over with a bleary expression. “Drooled on you.”

“Those are called tears, buddy.”

“No. I drooled, too.”

Steve cranes his neck down, and squints to see in the fading light. “Oh, yeah.”

“That’s how you know you’re, you’re really going for it. When there’s, like, spit involved.”

“Mm. Think I had that goin’, the other night.”

“Oh, you definitely did. One hundred percent,” Danny snorts. Then he covers his eyes with his hand and takes a long, shaky breath. Steve scruffs at the back of his neck.

“How you doin’?”

“I’m okay. ’m wiped.”

“Yeah.”

“An’ my head’s splitting, but what can y’do?”

“Sleep,” Steve replies; because even though the question was just a figure of speech, he’s pretty sure that’s the answer. He gets to his feet, pulls Danny up too.

Danny squints up at him, eyes small from the crying and maybe a little uncertainty too; but whatever the test, Steve seems to pass it, and Danny slumps against his chest for another embrace.

Steve doesn’t speak. Just holds him, until Danny pulls away on his own, taking his warmth with him.

“You cold?” Danny looks up, with a familiar smirk.

“Kinda.”

“ _Kind of_? You just shivered. Guess we should head back.”

“If you’re ready,” Steve replies. When Danny hesitates, he smiles. “It’s okay if you’re not. I’m not exactly about to catch hypothermia.”

“Aight. Just gimme a minute, then. We’ll spare all these citizens my post-breakdown face. Be honest, can you tell I been cryin’?”

“Be honest?”

“Be honest.”

“Um. It’s like, ridiculously obvious, Danno.” Steve grins, glad when Danny smiles back. “It’s ‘cause you’re so fair, man. It all goes all pink.”

“Mm. You go back to normal real fast, you know that?” Danny sniffles. “’s a good skill to have.”

“That’s like, first day SEAL shit, how to not look like you’ve been crying.”

Danny shakes his head, rubs his nose. “I almost believed you for a second.”

“Almost believed me? You should believe me; it’s true.”

“Okay. Okay. _Gah_.” Danny sighs. “I shoulda brought him something. A beer or something. I guess he probably never had beer. He was kind of a goodie-goodie.”

“Guess you needed someone to balance you.”

“Always have.”

“Mm.”

“That was the first time I lost my best friend.” Danny’s eyes are fixed to the water again. “It was not the last.”

Grace Tilwell, Steve’s mind supplies automatically; and probably Meka, too. And Matty. He would count, even if he hadn’t borne that precise title.

It’s actually overwhelming, how many people Danny’s lost; and Steve flashes back to a few nights ago and recalls, guiltily, what he’d been thinking then. That Danny has kids, and living parents, so what could he know of loneliness? But that’s not the way it works. Grief isn’t a set of balancing scales; the people you have can’t just outweigh the people you’ve lost.

Danny’s got long lists of both.

(And Steve is, what? Trying to switch sides?)

A fresh shiver runs the length of his body.

Danny sags forward, with a tired laugh. “Jesus Christ. Gotta toughen you up, babe.”

“I am tough,” Steve mutters.

“Yeah, you’re tough. You’re tough, ‘til you leave the tropics. Then you’re cold, in June, with a hoodie. Yo, we should spend winter here next year. Least a week or two.”

“Okay,” Steve replies.

Danny goes stiff.

“Winter in Jersey. I’m in.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“’m not tryna’, like, make this too big of a thing.” Danny sounds vaguely out of breath now. “But— you promise?”

“Yeah. I promise.”

“No matter what happens in between? We’ll be back here this winter.”

“No matter what happens in between,” Steve vows. “Although I gotta be honest, man— I think maybe I’ve been away from you as long as I wanna be already.”

Danny sways a little closer, like maybe Steve might need to catch him again, at some point. “And you wonder why people tease us like we’re married.”

“Danno, man, I haven’t wondered about that in years.”

“Well, I don’t wanna marry you. I just wanna know you for the rest of my life. If that’s not too much to ask,” he adds, as Steve laughs softly. “Yeah? Okay. You’re good with knowin’ each other for the rest of our lives?”

“I mean, obviously.”

More laughter, and Danny links their arms. “Hey, if we get warm, are you okay not goin’ back to the motel just yet?”

“Sure.”

“I just feel like being out, y’know? But we’ll get off the beach. There’s a place that makes really good hot chocolate, not too far.”

“Okay, ‘cause. I’ll be honest with you,” Steve huffs. “I’m sort of freezing my ass off, man.”

“I know. I can tell. C’mon.”

It’s a long walk back; but their arms stay linked, and that helps cut the chill. Danny doesn’t pull away, in fact, until they’re finally back on the boardwalk. And from there it’s just a minute or two before they’re safe and warm inside a little coffee shop.

Steve orders hot chocolate with mint. Danny announces his plans to get one with hazelnut, but changes his mind when he gets to the counter and orders spiced cider instead.

The shop is mostly empty, and their drinks are up in no time. They tuck up in a corner, in low, comfortable chairs that put them at a right angle to one other. Their knees bump.

Ten years ago, fresh out of the service and in many ways still young, Steve would have balked to be seen like this in public. Now he idly nudges Danny’s knee with his own, just because. Cups both hands around his drink, not shivering anymore, but savoring the warmth, nonetheless.

“What do you feel like doin’ tomorrow?”

Danny shakes himself a little, rousing to the conversation. “Um.” He clears his throat. “We could go to Atlantic City? Gamble?”

“Eh.” Steve shrugs.

“Yeah, I’m with you there.”

It’s quiet in the coffee shop; a few other subdued conversations, and the hum of beans being ground somewhere behind a closed door. Steve sips his drink; the flavor is rich, but bright.

“Could we, y’know,” he continues, eventually. “Could we go home?”

“Home like, my parents?”

“Yeah, is that— how long would that take?”

Danny grins his head as he shakes his head. “Two hours? Little less?”

“Oh.”

“How big you think Jersey is? You forget how to read a map?”

Steve tries to scowl, but he doesn’t get very far. Danny’s sunbeam smile doesn’t show up very often, but when it does, it’s stupidly infectious.

“I tell you what. We check out of the motel by ten, we could take 9 up to 35, follow the coast. Hit up some breweries, grab a box of donuts at this place Stella loves. Still be at Ma’s for dinner.”

Suddenly there’s a lump in Steve’s throat, and he doesn’t know why, because he’s still grinning like a fool. “Can we do that?”

“Yeah.”

“We’re not gonna miss out on, like, any essential Jersey experiences?”

“We can head back out in a couple days, if we feel like.” Danny shrugs. “But yeah. Yeah. We can absolutely go home tomorrow, man.”

“Okay. Okay.” Steve gives a quick sniffle, mostly as a precaution. “We can do more Jersey, later. I wouldn’t mind.”

“Still gotta go into the city, too. You ever been to New York?”

“Um. I’ve flown through JFK.”

“Jesus. Okay. We’re gonna rest up with my folks for a few days, and when we start gettin’ stir crazy, we’ll head over there. Touristy crap one day, and then I’ll show you the good spots.”

“You a certified tour guide in _two_ states, Danno?”

“See, the thing is, my state actually borders other states. _Steven_.”

It’s hard not to picture it— and why should he stop himself? Breweries and donuts and driving up the coast, and Clara hugging him as hard as he knows she will. Seeing another state he’s never seen before. Riding the subway and eating from street carts and seeing Times Square in person.

New places. New cities, new sights.

And while it’s not hard to look forward to these sort of things, Steve realizes: he could look forward to just about anything, right now. As long as Danny goes too.

In this past week he’s gained a marble and a sweatshirt and probably five more pounds. But that’s not what made it a good trip.

Because he’s pretty sure he’s also gotten his best friend back.

“Look at you, smilin’. Wh’t’re you smilin’ for?”

“Not smilin’,” Steve mutters; which is just about the stupidest possible thing he could say, because he’s grinning so widely that it feels like his cheeks might cramp.

Danny laughs and shakes his head. They lapse back into silence.

And this, this right here, must be peace. It’s a moment of perfect contentment— broken only when his stomach starts to fuss a little, at being fed nothing but various forms of sugar. Steve rubs lazily at his waistband.

“You all right?”

“Yeah. I need, like, actual food. Like. Meat and vegetables. You know a place?”

“Assuming you mean you don’t mean those two things as pizza toppings— no, actually. I don’t. Wanna poke around? Or ask the barista for a rec?”

“Could poke around,” Steve replies. “I’m warmed back up.”

Danny smiles, drains the last of his cider, and pushes to his feet.

“Should go off the boardwalk,” he notes, as they exit the shop. “Most of the restauranty places are in town. And by town I mean one block in that direction.”

It’s gotten dark out, while they were inside. Only the faintest pink tinge in the clouds remains; but all around them, streetlights have come on.

“You good with that?” Danny prompts.

“Lead the way,” Steve replies. “You still know this place best.”

“Oh, man. I could get used to that. Okay. Meat and vegetables. But then we pop back over here for a minute. It’s worth it, to see it really after dark.”

“And there’s one more thing you want to eat—” Steve guesses.

“And I completely forgot that we had to get Johnson’s. If we’re too beat, we can just take it with us. Ma’d love it, if we brought her some, anyway—”

“What’s Johnson’s?”

Danny pulls a face that obviously means, Steve will have to wait and see. Then he starts walking, and Steve grins, and follows.

The sun’s long set; but the day’s not done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your support of this story :) it’s helped me cope with not only the series ending but it’s genuinely helped me during quarantine too. I hope it brightened the days for you all, even just a bit. And of course I hope you and all your families are well <3
> 
> Jersey notes! Here we go.
> 
> Sea Shell*, ice cream (Wildwood, NJ); Shriver’s, fudge and saltwater taffy (Ocean City, NJ); Rita’s, water ice (Ocean City, NJ); Ocean City Coffee Co, hot chocolate (Ocean City, NJ); Johnson’s, caramel corn (Ocean City, NJ)
> 
> *Sea Shell has been around as long as I can recall, but it may or may not have actually been open when Danny would have gone last. Their website only says they’ve been open “over 30 years”. So if it had been open, it would have been pretty new, and therefore presumably not the institution it is today. I don’t know. I spent five minutes of my life trying, and failing, to figure out if Danny Williams would have gone to this one specific ice cream shop in Wildwood as a kid or not. I did not allow myself to spend more than those five minutes. Point is, if you’re ever in Wildwood, get some ice cream.
> 
> And one more thing…
> 
> https://www.flickr.com/photos/clintjcl/8674124339/
> 
> This is the pinwheel that is mentioned in exactly one line of the story! Such a minor detail but I just remember these SO CLEARLY from the shore. This photo actually appears to be from the Ocean City that’s in Maryland, not Jersey, so I can’t claim that this is an exclusive thing. But. I fucking love those pinwheels :D


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